


To The Beat Of The Devil's Drums

by BlueNeutrino



Series: A Bleeding Heart Still Pounds [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amusement Parks, Body Horror, Cardiophilia, Case Fic, Clowns, Dean Whump, Gen, Heartbeats, Horror, Mind Games, Sam Whump, Whump, abandoned amusement park, automatons, but mostly major Dean whump, dark cardiophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 45,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should have been a simple case. Drive into town, kill the monster, stop off for burgers-n-beer on the way home like they have countless times before. But when the hunt takes them to an abandoned amusement park in the middle of nowhere and Sam is taken by a monster Dean doesn't even know how to begin to describe, Dean finds himself fighting not only for Sam's life, but his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this fic planned and partly written for absolutely ages, but I finally got round to writing the opening so I can kick things off properly. Consider this your warning: there will be some serious cardiophilic horror and major Dean whumpage in this. I am going to do a number on him physically, psychologically, and emotionally. And hey, maybe that's your thing. In which case, stick around.

The green light of the fire escape glows like a beacon in the distance. Fighting back against the darkness creeping over his vision, Dean tries to focus on it as both brothers stumble towards what they hope is safety. Sam is heavy against Dean’s side, barely able to stay upright by himself, although Dean isn’t much better. It’s a miracle how they make it the last few meters, both supporting each other until Dean’s hands finally reach out to grasp the bar across the doorway and push it open. There’s a rush of cool air from the other side, and then they both stumble over the threshold, not looking back as they press desperately on.

Sam’s eyes are fluttering shut. Dean can feel him growing heavier as he sags against the arm Dean has under his shoulders, and Dean knows that if Sam passes out, he physically doesn’t have the strength to drag him further. “Come on, Sammy, it’s not that far…we just…we gotta keep going, okay?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, his chest and throat burning with the effort of speaking at all. The stench of smoke and burning gasoline hangs thick in the air and it’s a struggle to even breathe. An alarm or siren of some sort is screeching all around them, making Dean’s head ring, and he knows there isn’t much time before the fire spreads and the whole place comes down. They have to get out of here.

There’s a staircase just beyond the fire door, black painted metal that clangs horribly with each slight movement, and Dean feels it shudder as he and Sam drag themselves onto the platform at the top. Sam’s trying to stay awake, laboriously forcing one foot in front of the other, but he’s deathly pale and Dean knows he’s lost too much blood. There’s a trail of crimson smearing across the floor behind them from both their injuries, and Dean doesn’t even want to imagine how it would look if he glanced back. The only way they can focus on is forward.

Somehow, they keep going, clutching at the handrail to stay upright and conscious as they descend the staircase. They’re just a few feet from the bottom when Sam’s legs give out, and he falls, dragging Dean with him as they tumble into the dirt. Dean’s shins collide with the edges of the final few steps, his ankle catches between them, twists, and a fresh shock of pain shoots through his legs. It barely registers. His body’s been nothing but one giant bundle of agony for hours, the waves of pain fluctuating in time with the frantic beating of his heart. It hurts less than the panic that crashes over him as he realizes that Sam’s finally lost his battle with consciousness.

“No, Sammy, come on, you gotta stay with me…” Dean pleads, ignoring the burning in his legs as he gets to his knees and tries to pull Sam upright again, although he barely has the strength to lift him from where he collapsed to the floor. He’s praying for Sam’s eyes to open, silently begging that Sam will wake up and somehow have the energy to keep going, but his brother’s body is just dead weight in his arms. Dread settles heavy in the pit of Dean’s stomach as he crushes his fingertips to Sam’s throat in search of a pulse. He can’t tell if there’s one there or not. His hands are shaking too violently, his head pounding in time with his own heartbeat, and the dull haze over his eyes is pulling him closer to join Sam in unconsciousness. All he knows is, if he can’t get Sam out of here, then he’s staying too.

“Sammy, please…” He doesn’t know if his vision’s blurring from tears or if his body’s just finally giving up, but he chokes out the words in desperation. “Cas, we need help…”

Maybe he just imagines it, the blurred shape that looks like a man in a trenchcoat materializing somewhere in the corners of his vision, because it can’t be Cas. He knows the prayer is futile when every prayer of the past two days has gone unanswered, but there’s still a faint spark of hope that ignites inside him as the figure begins to approach. Whether it’s real or not, it’s the final thing Dean sees before his battered body finally defeats his stubborn attempts to stay conscious, and he slips away to join Sam in oblivion.

 


	2. Warning Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters never did heed warning signs.

_Two Days Earlier_

Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as the Impala rolls to a standstill, coming to stop at the foot of a wide, unkempt driveway leading up to the park gates. More crunching follows as the doors swing open and two pairs of boots step out, footsteps falling into a synchronised rhythm as the men make their way towards the entrance.

Dean casts an unimpressed eye over the dishevelled sight before him, taking in the stained, flaking paint of the park walls that he can just about make out beneath the thick overgrowth threatening to swallow the structure whole. Long grass and weeds swipe at their ankles as they approach, while the sign above the entrance does its best to creep out from behind the moss and ivy clinging to it. Faded purple letters proclaim the park’s name followed by a strapline, the childish bubble font attempting a poor imitation of cheerfulness.

“ _Wanda’s Wonderland_ ,” Dean reads drily as the he and Sam draw nearer. “ _Where dreams come true!_ ” He quirks a sarcastic eyebrow. “Which of your dreams is gonna come true in there, Sammy? World peace? Adopting a shelter of abandoned puppies? Channing Tatum in a g-string?” Dean smirks, shooting a sideways glance to gauge his brother’s reaction, but Sam looks nonplussed.

“I might get lucky. You sent that movie back to the rental company before I had chance to watch it,” Sam retorts casually, and Dean scowls.

“Well, if I get through those gates and Lucy Liu isn’t waiting for me in a leather bikini, I’m calling bullshit.” He strides up to where a “ _Danger! Keep out!_ ” sign is hanging redundantly on the concertinaed security grill pulled in front of the entrance, and then looks across to where the gate is already falling out of its frame. A gap has formed between the gate and the wall, and Dean grasps the edge of the metal and gives a tug to widen it. “Guess this is how those kids got in. After you, Sammy.”

Sam clambers through the opening, a “ _Trespassers will be prosecuted”_ sign protesting futilely beside his head before Dean follows. The pair of them make their way past the abandoned ticket booths, the space opening out into what remains of the grand entrance to Wanda’s Wonderland. The remnants of a grand fountain stand before them, a few inches of green, slime-coated water lingering at the bottom, while just beyond it a large billboard advertises one of the park’s major attractions. Several tarmac pathways branch off from the central space, each accompanied by a rather sad-looking sign pointing the way to a different themed region. The desolate signs promising “More fun this way!” draw particularly dubious looks.

The brothers exchange a glance and then each cast their eyes around, the forlorn figures of long-dead attractions standing lonely and silent in the near distance. Dominating the skyline, the skeleton of a gigantic red rollercoaster towers up from the thin layer of mist coating the ground, standing out stark against the pale grey clouds. Sam raises an eyebrow as he takes in the shape. It starts out flat, followed by a bump, then a dip, leading into a steep climb that must be over 300 feet before the sharp crest turns into a near vertical drop, plummeting into the mist before the track wrenches itself up again. There’s a brief stretch of almost-flat rail until it suddenly twists into a series of loops and corkscrews that would make anyone’s head spin, and then the track finally plateaus and curves back to its starting point. Up until the start of the crazy loops, Sam notes that the shape reminds him of an EKG trace.

Dean has taken a few steps forward, coming to stand in front of the billboard that’s so coated in grime Sam didn’t immediately recognise the shape on it. He takes a few more paces to stand beside his brother, gazing up at the image portraying the real-life rollercoaster beyond, from another time when the park was bustling and the sky blue. “So this is it, then,” he remarks, “The rollercoaster with the two fatal accidents that got the park shut down.”

Dean grunts, continuing to study the image on the billboard. In the sky, loopy red lettering gives the name of the rollercoaster, while at the bottom, a pasted-on rectangle of slightly-less-grimy paper bears the strapline. “ _The Flatliner,_ ” Dean continues to read in the same deadpan tone as earlier, “ _Pulse-pounding terror!_ ” He frowns. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I’m not sure that was the original strapline,” Sam says, taking another step closer and reaching up to the foot of the billboard. It isn’t raised that high off the ground, but even he has to stretch. A tentative finger picks at the corner of the pasted-on strip of paper and it comes away readily, practically disintegrating in Sam’s hands. He scratches off enough to expose the letters “h”, “r” and “t” underneath before finally giving up, grimacing at the dirt on his fingers and wiping them on his jacket as he steps away. “When I was reading the articles I think they were marketing it as ‘Heart-stopping terror’ but I guess after the first accident, somebody thought that was in bad taste.”

“Well, they weren’t wrong,” Dean remarks, stepping past the billboard to head down one of the pathways, keeping a wary eye on the silhouette of the rollercoaster in the distance. “I mean, who goes on a rollercoaster like that? Called _The Flatliner?_ And especially after there’s already been one fatal accident? It’s like they have a death wish.”

Sam just shrugs. “That’s thrillseekers. I guess it just adds to the appeal.”

“That’s what I don’t get. What’s so fun about being thrown around in a cart on rails at high speeds where something could go wrong at any minute?”

Noticing Dean’s agitation, Sam raises a curious eyebrow. “You don’t like rollercoasters?”

“No, Sam. I don’t.”

“You know, most rollercoasters go through more rigorous safety checks than a lot of aircraft.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really, I guess, but it’s not like you’ll have to go on any of the rollercoasters here, Dean. They’re all defunct.”

“Good.” Dean shoots another glare in the direction of the towering red coaster. “Because you wouldn’t catch me dead on that. Let’s just focus on finding this vamps’ nest and getting it over with.”

They continue down the path, overgrown bushes bearing in on them from both sides and eyes cautiously scanning what little they can see beyond. Dean pats the front of his jacket to feel the reassuring shape of the machete concealed beneath. Even while he’s expecting this to be straightforward, Sam is frowning, less convinced that the case is gonna be that easy. “You’re still sure it’s vamps we’re dealing with?”

Dean shoots him a glance. “Yeah. Bunch of kids decide to check out an abandoned amusement park; two get spooked and bail, other two aren’t seen again until the body of one shows up in a field a couple of miles away drained of blood. Only thing that would have a reason to do that is vamps.”

“But then how do you explain why there were no bite marks? Cops said all they found were needle punctures on the kid’s arms. Why would a vampire do that?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe they were trying to fill up blood bags for a long term supply. If you’re a vampire nesting in some abandoned amusement park, there can’t be that many fresh meals you come across.”

“But that’s just it, Dean. If you’re a vamp, some abandoned park in the middle of nowhere seems like a crappy place to nest.”

Dean gives an exasperated huff. Not that he doesn’t trust his brother’s instincts, but sometimes, Sam can overcomplicate things. “So if not vampires, what then?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Just…” Sam lets out a sigh of frustration and shakes his head. “Let’s just keep an open mind, okay?”

“I’m doing just that, Sammy,” Dean promises, hitching up the back of his jacket slightly so that Sam can see the Taurus Model 92 tucked into the back of his jeans. “Came prepared for anything.”

After giving in to the urge to roll his eyes, Sam just nods. “Yeah. Alright. No need to shake your ass at me.” He’s still confused and cautious about what they’re dealing with, but the pair of them continue down the path, ignoring the sign that’s trying to direct them to an attraction called _Haunted Halls_.

“Lame,” Dean scoffs as they pass it, and that’s one thing where Sam has to nod in agreement. They haven’t gotten far from the entrance before the first corner brings them face-to-face with a lifesize model clown, paint flaking from its already garish face to give it an even more demented look. In its hands is clutched a sign directing them to the so-called ‘Fun House.’ Dean shoots it a look of distaste, but Sam shivers. The black paint of the clown’s pupils has peeled away, leaving behind nothing but blank white, and despite the chills running down his spine, Sam can’t help that his gaze is drawn to that blank, menacing stare. There’s something far too familiar, too demonic, about those pale eyes.

“See,” Dean suddenly says, noticing the way the color has drained from Sam’s face. “At least I’m afraid of stuff that can actually kill you. You’re scared by a mannequin with a bad paint job.”

“Shut up,” Sam growls, dragging his eyes from the clown’s deranged face to shoot his brother a glare. “Don’t tell me that isn’t creepy.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy. If we end up in the Fun House, I’ll hold your hand.”

Sam glares harder, but he’s in too much of a hurry to get past the mannequin to even retort. “Alright, if you were a vamp camping out in an abandoned theme park, where would you hole up?” he says after a few more paces, trying to distract himself from the image of blank staring eyes that has imprinted itself in his mind. Even if he’s not fully convinced they’re actually hunting vamps, he’s eager for a sense of strategy.

“Well, indoors is the obvious choice,” Dean replies, tone back to business again. “Which means that our options so far would actually be the Fun House…” – Sam expression speaks for him, and Dean quickly moves on – “Or I guess we could go back to that Haunted Halls place?”

Sam’s _fuck no_ expression turns into a more withering one. “Really?”

“Or we could keep checking everywhere else first, but we’re probably just gonna end up there sooner or later. May as well start at the beginning.”

Sam lets out a sigh, but he knows Dean’s right. Lame though the attraction may be, they aren’t here for leisure. “Alright,” he agrees, steeling himself to head back past that goddamn clown. “We’ll head back that way. Start off there, then work round the park until we find something. But the Fun House is a last resort.”

Dean gives a nod of approval, choosing not to tease his little brother further. “Sounds like a plan.” He turns to head back the short distance the way they came, Sam preparing to follow. It takes a second or two longer for the younger Winchester to grit his teeth and turn to face the opposite direction, but the instant he does so, he freezes.

“Dean!”

The urgency in Sam’s tone is enough to have Dean instantly alert, head whipping back round towards his brother. “Sam?”

“Dean, the clown.” Sam’s voice is clipped, every muscle in his body tensed. He knows his own biases; that his phobia makes the clown that much scarier to him than it is to Dean, but this is one thing he's sure he isn't imagining.

Dean casts a cautious glance back towards the mannequin, seeming to him as innocuous as before, and unsure whether this is his brother’s phobia talking or something’s actually wrong. His hand creeps closer to his gun just in case. “What about it, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes don’t move from the clown’s as he replies in a voice full of dread, “It’s moved.”

Dean goes still, eyes carefully studying the figure, holding his breath as if that might somehow entice it to move again. After several seconds pass in which he still can’t tell what’s wrong, he turns his head back to his brother. “Sam, it’s still exactly where it was before…”

“Dean, its eyes." As if Sam could forget that hellish stare, the way it had seemed to fix right on him as he passed. And why, if the clown is just an inanimate object, it shouldn't still be fixed on him now. "Before it was looking at the path. Now it’s looking right at us.”

“What…?” Dean begins to say, but he’s cut off by Sam suddenly crying his name, his brother’s eyes wide, panicked. Dean can’t turn his head fast enough.


	3. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my game. These are the rules.

Sam remembers his first nightmare from childhood of a clown. He’d only have been young, maybe five or six, when John had taken Dean and him to a carnival for the first time--what Sam now supposes must have been cover for a hunt, as John had left them to entertain themselves for most of the day and come back tired and irritable an hour after closing. Even so, Dean had seemed to enjoy it, dragging Sam round the hook-a-ducks and ring tosses and coconut shies, even managing to win a giant teddy bear for his baby brother. But then they’d come across the clown handing out balloons, and all Sam had wanted to do was bury his face in the teddy bear’s fur and hide behind Dean’s legs.

Dean had tried to reassure him it was just a clown: a man in face paint, not a monster, but that hadn’t stopped the memory of the crazed crying eyes and bloated red mouth haunting Sam long after they’d gone back to the motel. That night he’d dreamt of a clown in the room, standing by the window, its perpetually weeping eyes staring cold and menacing towards him. He’d wanted to wake Dean, but when he reached out towards his brother beside him in the bed, there was no-one there.

Terrified, Sam had curled up into a ball, hiding under the covers and screwing his eyes shut until the monster went away. He dared peek out only occasionally to check if it was still there, but every time he did, there the figure would be. Each time it had advanced two steps closer, until finally Sam would look out from beneath the comforter and the clown was right there above him, grinning manically as it came to drag him away…

It wasn’t a one-time dream. Every time Sam would wake screaming, and Dean would be there beside him; his big brother come to chase the monsters away. Dean would reassure him, tell him it was just a bad dream as he held him, soothing him, until Sam felt safe enough to go back to sleep.

Now, Sam watches as if inside that same nightmare, as the once-static clown begins to move. First, its body pivots, following the altered angle of its head, and then the sign bearing the garish advertisement falls from its grasp. The plastic hands fall with it, and what that leaves behind makes Sam’s eyes widen. Metal tools extend from the plastic sheaths of its forearms: the right hand becoming a metal claw; the left, a blade that right now is rising up to strike towards Dean’s head.

Dean reacts quickly, but not quickly enough. His gun is in his hand in an instant, firing two shots at the creature that is already too close for comfort, but there’s a sharp clanging as the bullets punch past the faded plastic and strike what metal skeleton must be underneath. It doesn’t deter the clown’s advance, but the angle of the bladed arm is deflected, striking at thin air although the other arm immediately comes up close enough to knock the gun from Dean’s grasp.

Dean stumbles backwards, hand quickly reaching for his machete despite it being the least suitable weapon possible for this situation. Sam draws his own gun, firing two more shots in a vain attempt to help his brother, but this time he sees the sparks as the slugs strike metal. Realising the futility of the shots, Sam darts forward with no real plan in mind other than _get to Dean,_ but his path is suddenly blocked as he hears the rustle and snap of branches beside him, and then another unwelcome, hideous painted face emerges from the bushes.

Heart pounding, Sam raises his gun and fires again.

\---

Dean draws the machete just in time to hack at the clawed hand reaching towards him, but all it earns him is a jarring vibration up his own arm as metal strikes metal. It does nothing to halt the clown, its expression unchanged as ever, yet somehow now there’s a twisted glee in its inflated grin as the claw hooks into the front of Dean’s jacket and wrenches sideways. The creature tosses him to the ground like a rag doll, hurling him several feet before he lands with a hard thud on the tarmac. Dean grunts, head spinning as the machete falls from his grasp. He’s landed at an angle that leaves him staring past the clown towards Sam, where his brother is battling a second – _second?!_ – creature the same as the first.

Dazed and winded, Dean shakes his head to clear it and tries to pick himself up. Instinctively, the cry of “Sam!” tears from his throat as he watches the second clown draw nearer his brother, impervious to the entire magazine Sam offloads towards it. Sam’s feet are stumbling backwards as he tries to run and aim at the same time, but it ultimately does him no good as round the curve of the path, Dean sees yet another of the painted automatons emerging from behind. Dean only has time to notice that the third animatronic clown has a slightly different design as it raises its right hand – this one not clawed, but instead shaped like a hammer – and that hammer is right now swinging towards Sam’s head.

There isn’t time to stop it. Dean watches as the blow lands, almost feeling it as if it struck his own skull, and he could swear his heart stops as Sam’s body crumples to the floor. He cries his brother’s name again, throat hoarse as he at last finds his feet and tries to run forward, but the clown from before is once again marching towards him. It never occurs to Dean to run, barely even focusing on the creature as he stares past to where one of the other clowns has hold of Sam’s ankle and has begun dragging him away. _Is there blood?_ Dean wonders as he tries to make out Sam’s face, praying that the situation isn’t the worst as he watches his brother’s body disappear behind the bushes.

Everything’s happening too quickly for him to process before he realises that the clown is right beside him, and there’s a flash of metal and white eyes in the corner in his vision before pain suddenly erupts in the side of his head. Stars speckle his vision, clearing just in time for him to see the tarmac rising up to meet him once more, and then as his head makes impact everything cuts to black.

\---

The first thing Dean becomes aware of is pain; a dull throbbing in his skull as he eases back into consciousness. Other sensations follow soon after: a warm stickiness coating the side of his face, the smell of wet soil, and then dull light penetrating through his eyelids. The memory of what happens catches up with him quickly, and he hurries to try to open his eyes. When he does so, he finds himself staring towards the base of an overgrown bush bordering a familiar tarmac path. He hasn’t moved.

Feeling a curdling unease in the pit of his stomach, Dean rolls over and stiffly tries to pick himself up, body aching where bruises have already begun to form. The thought _why didn’t they take me?_ crosses his mind as he looks around for any evidence of his brother or the clowns, but he’s completely on his own in the same empty stretch of path as before. His mind kicks into overdrive, confusion overwhelming him as it's become apparent that it definitely isn’t vampires they’re dealing with. _Why did they want Sam? What if he’s…_ He halts that thought before it even has chance to fully form in his mind, not allowing himself to even consider the worst. _They must want him alive for something._

Taking a few more stiff paces, Dean realises his gun and machete have been left lying where they fell. Not that they were much help to him before, but he goes to pick them up, feeling slightly more reassured now that he’s once again armed. A tentative hand goes to the side of his face, coming away red and sticky with partially-congealed blood, but as far as Dean can tell, the blow that knocked him out isn’t too severe. If it turns out later that he’s concussed…well, he isn’t even going to consider that now. The only thought that’s forcing its way to the front of his mind is _must find Sam._

With little else to go on, Dean begins to follow the path in the direction in which he saw Sam being dragged, nerves on edge and keeping his gun in hand. His eyes continue to dart around for any more signs of threat, but everything is eerily still. If he concentrates on his breathing, he can just about keep the panic churning in his gut under control, but there’s no way to calm the frantic pace of his heart. If only he knew _what_ those things were, or if he knew _why_ they’d taken Sam, this would be so much easier, but the constant _??????_ in his mind only adds to the fear.

Right now, the only thing Dean knows to do is search.

He wanders, the path taking him towards an open space where there’s a few picnic tables and an abandoned food stand, before he abandons it completely. The knee-high barrier marking the permitted regions for visitors isn’t much of an obstacle as Dean steps over it into the overgrown spaces between the attractions, and he continues on. He has a feeling that if Sam has been taken somewhere in the park, it will be off the beaten path. Right now, he’s still holding out a sliver of hope that Sam will have woken up and found a way to escape his captors, but he knows that in reality things are likely to be a far worse.

He kicks at the weeds dragging on his feet as he makes his way beneath one of the park’s smaller coasters, ears straining to hear anything besides his own breathing or the rustle of his footsteps. He knows the chances are slim, but there’s a part of him clinging to the hope that Sam is already out there looking for him too. It’s a strong enough hope to convince him to try calling out.

“Sam? Sammy?”

Dean’s voice rings out across the desolate structures of the abandoned park, seeming unnaturally loud in the still air. The name is embedded with a sense of urgency that grows stronger each time he repeats it, panic climbing as he realises his brother is nowhere to be found. Batting aside some overgrowth that is creeping its way up the rusted column of a rollercoaster support, Dean steps forward and tries again. “Sam?”

He’s met with nothing but hollow silence, the open space around him too vast to grant so much as an echo. “Dammit.”

He swallows down the fear curdling in his gut and casts his gaze around again. The park is huge: a labyrinth of old metal structures and decaying attractions that are slowly succumbing to the sea of grime and vegetation creeping over them. Sam could be anywhere in this place, and Dean still has no idea what those _things_ were that took him. All he knows is, despite the park’s deserted appearance, there’s something out there, and that something has his brother. That means Dean has to kill it.

His fingers flex on the handle of his gun as he creeps forward a few more paces, muscles tensed in preparation for the sudden appearance of any more monsters. His vision is slightly hazed and he blinks a couple of times to clear it, still not having quite recovered from being knocked out. Blood is crusting on the side of his face, scabbing over the gash on his forehead, and Dean takes a deep breath to try to clear his head.

_Alright, concentrate. If they’ve got Sam, where would they take him? What do they want him for?_

He’s drawing up nothing but blanks in answer to both those questions, and he swears loudly again in frustration. “Dammit!”

As if on cue, the shout seems to provoke a response that sends a chill down his spine. From far above his head, Dean hears a crackle of static, and then a cold, piercing laugh reverberates in the stillness, followed by a mocking voice. _“Aw, Dean. Has your little brother got lost in the park?”_

Instinctively, Dean’s weapon arm extends in front of him as his eyes dart frantically about for the threat. He’s aware that his heart has started thumping faster as he turns his gaze upwards to locate the source of the voice: a loudspeaker mounted on the pillar beside the rollercoaster tracks, once designed to blast music at park goers and now being used to taunt him.

“Where is he?” Dean growls, spinning on the spot as he still tries to figure out if anyone’s there. He doesn’t know where the voice on the other end of the speaker is coming from, or even if she can hear him, but he snarls it out in anger. “Who are you? What the fuck have you done with Sam?”

“ _Relax, Dean,”_ the voice replies, almost sounding bored. “ _Don’t worry; I’ve got Sammy here with me. He’s completely fine, and he’ll stay that way as long as you play along.”_

Fear trickles down Dean’s back to pool somewhere at the base of his spine. “What do you mean? Just let my brother go, you bitch!”

 _“Now, now, Dean. Manners,”_ she chides him in a tone of cruel amusement. “ _I know you think you’re all big and scary with your gun and all, but you’re in my park, and I’m expecting you to be a little more civil. Now, I’m not going to kill Sammy yet;_ _not while I’ve got you to play with. But of course, that requires you to co-operate.”_

Every nerve in Dean’s body is on edge as he tries to figure out what’s going on. “Co-operate how? How do I even know you’ve got Sam and you aren’t just fucking with me?”

A moment later, he almost regrets asking as a new noise sounds over the speakers: a voice, low and male, softly moaning in pain. Dean unmistakeably recognises it as his brother’s. “You bitch! What did you do to him?!” he yells in pure fury, finger instantly clenching tighter around the pistol’s trigger. He’s itching to put a bullet in whatever it is that’s hurting Sam, if only it were anywhere nearby.

Sam’s moans abruptly fall silent, and then the voice laughs again. “ _I told you, Dean, relax. He’s not hurt – not badly, at any rate – just woozy. I’d actually be prepared to let him go, but I need you to play a game with me first.”_

“What game?”

The next response blindsides him. “ _What’s your current heart rate?_ ”

“Whu…what?”

_“Serious question, Dean. I’m gonna say…around ninety-ish? Oh, and there we go. It’s getting faster.”_

Dean swallows hard, the confusion addling his brain giving way to cold fear. Can she hear his heartbeat? He guesses it makes sense, since she seems to be able to hear his voice despite being nowhere nearby, but the thought unnerves him.

 _“Yep, it sounds like it’s in the nineties,”_ she continues, confirming his suspicions. “ _Pretty steady, all things considered. So, I’ll give you a little leeway. You keep it below 110 beats per minute, and no harm comes to Sam. If you let it get above that, well, I’ve got a tube stuck in your brother’s veins, and if your heart rate gets too high I’ll turn the tap. The faster your heart beats, the faster I’ll drain his blood. All you have to do, Dean, is find out where I’m keeping him before he bleeds out. Simple, really.”_

Dean’s mind is racing. He has no idea why she wants to do this and it sounds way too straightforward, but already he can feel his heart rate creeping higher from nerves. Simple, maybe, but it doesn’t sound easy. Not when he’s sure there’s a catch. “And that’s it? That’s the game?”

“ _Yep. If you win and manage to find us, I let Sam go. That’s all there is to it.”_

“But why? Why does it depend on my heartbeat?”

“ _Why not? I mean, this is an amusement park. The whole point is to get people’s pulses racing_.”

This is sounding increasingly ominous. “But you’ve just told me I need to keep my heart rate down?”

“ _I did, didn’t I? Guess you need to get practicing those deep breathing exercises then, Dean._ ”

He doesn’t have chance to ask her what she means by that when the static crackle from the speakers suddenly goes dead. Dean swallows, having suddenly become incredibly aware of the thudding of the muscle inside his chest, knowing Sam’s life is now entangled with every beat. All he has to do is stay calm. He just has to get his heart rate under control and keep searching…

That, however, becomes infinitely less easy as he suddenly hears a metallic grinding and clanging start up somewhere nearby. The sound is harsh on his eardrums, screaming of threat, and Dean feels his heart rate kick up worryingly high as he turns his head towards it.


	4. Look Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look down if you're afraid. Look up if you want to survive.

Dean’s eyes pan upwards to the rollercoaster tracks overhead, all the while forcing himself not to panic and keep his breathing steady. Through the ivy hanging down, the sight of movement makes his heart give a traitorous skip: the chain lift, having hooked an old, decrepit car and now dragging it to the top of a slope. Dean feels a chill as he wonders how it’s moving by itself. His eyes follow the track further, up to the peak almost directly above him before the rails plummet steeply down to his right. It registers with him just as the car reaches the crest: the kink in the track where a connection has loosened, metal warping between the track and the supports so that it rattles ominously as the car draws closer.

A heartbeat later, and the car pulls over the crest and begins to hurtle towards the dip. It hits the kink in less than a second, wheels screeching against the wrenching twist of the metal and making the entire frame shake. A rusted axle snaps from the torsion, and the wheels lose their grip so that the car comes skidding from the tracks to plummet rapidly towards right where Dean is standing below.

There’s barely time for Dean to blink as he sees the car topple from the rails, the piercing ring of breaking metal like a gunshot in his ears, and then he’s throwing himself sideways out of its path. He hits the ground hard, arms shielding his head as he feels the force of the impact rumble through the earth beneath him. The sound of the car crumpling is like thunder, its outer shell bending, seats knocked loose as it rolls twice and then comes to a rest, upside-down, just yards from where Dean is lying on the floor.

A beat passes as the world once again goes silent. The eerie stillness almost seems shocked by the violence that had just disturbed it, the only sound remaining that of Dean’s rapid breathing as he stares, wide-eyed, at the crumpled wreck of the car. Crushed into a ball and covered in dirt, he can still see the remains of yellow and black paint coating it shell. There’s no way to stop the intruding thought of what it would have looked like had he not moved in time.

Shaking, Dean gets back to his feet and lets out a steady, controlled breath. He raises a hand to his chest, flattening his palm over his racing heart as he wills it to slow down. The sheer impossibility of the challenge he has to meet makes the knuckles of his other hand whiten.

_Come on, calm down…_

He can’t think of Sam. Even though his brother is the whole reason for this situation, the thought of Sam in pain and bleeding out only makes Dean’s heart want to gallop harder with anger and fear. He tries to block it out from his mind, instead focusing only on the physical sensation of his heart pounding in his chest and trying to get it under control. After about two minutes, Dean thinks – _hopes_ – he’s got it below 110 bpm again.

There’s too much danger now for him to handle on his own. It’s time to call in help.

Dean clears his throat and takes a breath. He glances around nervously, almost as if checking he’s on his own, but he knows that whatever’s out there is something he can’t see. “Cas, you out there?” He suspects this is a long shot. He doesn’t know if Cas is listening, or if his prayers will just go ignored like it’s begun to seem, but this is for Sam. “Look, I get you’re busy with your angel…whatever, and there’s still shit going down in Heaven, but I need you. Sam’s been taken. I don’t know what’s got him, but whatever it is, he’s hurt, and he doesn’t have much time. So…this is me asking for help.” He lets that sentence hang, hoping Cas will understand the unspoken _now_ and _please_ he can’t bring himself to vocalise.

A heartbeat passes, too heavy in Dean’s chest, and he hates how he can’t shut it off and lose awareness of it. There’s no familiar wingbeats, a trenchcoat, or concerned blue eyes to greet him: just silence, stretching out too long and making his pounding blood seem louder in his ears. “Dammit!” Dean growls, his desperation rising like a wave to crash hard over what hope he’s clinging onto. He’s not going to be ignored.

His hand flies to the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers moving almost too fast to unlock his phone. Chances are Cas isn’t even going to answer, and it makes Dean want to scream, but he has to try. There’s just one lone, flickering bar of reception in the top right of the screen, but he’s praying that it will be enough. Not that praying has helped thus far.

He hits ‘dial’ and holds the phone to his ear, feeling his heart skip when he hears the other end ring. It continues four times, somewhat muffled from the poor signal, but then it stops. There’s a dull click, and for a heartbeat Dean hopes that’s Cas picking up, but when he hears the voice that answers, something wrenches horribly inside him.

“ _Hello, Dean._ ”

The words are familiar, but it’s not the low, rough voice he’d been desperately needing to hear. It’s the cold, sharp soprano of just minutes ago.

He freezes, every muscle in his body going tense as his mind kicks into overdrive. She chuckles, presumably hearing the way his heart’s furiously begun to pound, and he silently curses it. “ _Really, Dean? Who said you could ask for help?_ ”

Dean’s throat feels tight, but he swallows and growls out a reply. “You never said I couldn’t.”

“ _But this is_ our game _! It wouldn’t be much fun if somebody else got in the way_.” Her sing-song mocking voice suddenly turns hard. “ _Don’t try that again. You try to get help, you try to leave or get far enough away that I can’t hear your heart anymore, then Sammy’s stops. Game over. You understand?_ ”

He does. And it terrifies him. “Yes.”

“ _Good_.” The lines goes dead.

Dean’s hands are shaking as he slowly lowers the phone from his ear and slips it back into his pocket. He gulps down a breath, feeling ready to just drop to his knees. His heart won’t slow. _Please let it slow. Please let it slow. Please…_ The mantra’s running round his head so quickly it only seems to be forcing his heart to keep up.

There can only be a few seconds that pass as Dean feels he’s frozen to the spot, but with his mind tripping over itself in desperation, he feels like he’s wasting too much time. He shakes his head to clear it, trying to get a hold on himself and decide what to do. If he’s on his own, then his only option seems to be to play along. If he can just get his heart to play on his side…

It’s still racing when he picks up his feet to move again, but he figures if it’s beating fast anyway, he may as well use it to start getting something done. He just needs to focus, take things one step at a time, and stay calm. So the first thing is to figure out where to begin looking for Sam.

He continues to walk through the overgrowth beneath the rollercoaster until he emerges onto a tarmac path again, following it gently downhill until he reaches a crossroads where, helpfully, there’s an information board featuring a map of the park. It’s not a solution, but it’s a start, and he thinks his heartbeat calms a little for seeing it.

As he approaches, he scowls at the level of grime coating the plastic. He has to wipe some away with his sleeve before he can make out the key details, but considering the gravity of the situation, that bothers him less than it normally would.

The entrance to the park is in the south. The central area he appears to be standing in now bears the title, “Adventure Plaza,” and apparently, the coaster that has almost just crushed him was named “The Wasp”. Dean’s glad he didn’t get stung. In the north, the high ground at the far end of the park is aptly labelled “Thrillseeker Heights,” a stylised depiction of _The Flatliner_ bearing pride of place on the map. If Dean looks just beyond the board and to his right, he can still see the real thing rising up from the fog in the distance. Its shape almost seems to mock him now, taunting him with its depiction of a heartbeat losing control. Dean scowls and looks away again.

 _The Twilight Zone_ is in the southwest, while following it up takes him through the food court up to _Splash Valley_ at the foot of the hill. In the east, Dean can see _The Carnival_ leads through to _Family Funland_ further north. His eyes are quickly drawn to the icon of a clown head that labels the Fun House, and a chill runs down his spine. He wonders if it’s too obvious, if the creatures being used to advertise the Fun House would indeed have taken Sam there, but a quick glance over the map gives him no better idea of where to start. Dean draws a breath, grateful that at last he’s no longer able to feel each heartbeat in his chest as he picks up his feet and begins to follow the path east.


	5. The Tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you go into the tunnel, don't follow the light.

“So what are you gonna do when you find me?” Sam asks.

Dean lets out a controlled breath, his eyes fixed on the path ahead of him as he follows the signs to _The Carnival._ After a beat, he replies, “I’m going to save you and bring you home.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to kill her.”

“So have you figured out how yet? Do you even know what she is?”

Dean hasn’t and he doesn’t, and he hesitates to answer. Sam gives him a look, at once both helpless and accusatory, and Dean sees there’s blood crusting on the side of his head. It makes his pulse quicken, so he swallows and blinks. When he opens his eyes again, the blood is gone, but Sam’s still giving him that look. He’s completely dependent on his big brother to rescue him. Dean sighs guiltily and answers. “I don’t know, Sammy. But I’ll figure it out and come get you. I promise.”

Sam says nothing.

Dean stops walking for a moment to draw a deep breath and rub at his eyes. He’s not hallucinating. He knows Sam’s not really there, but his imagination sees fit to conjure him up anyway: the double edged sword of giving him someone to talk to and making him more anxious. He needs his brother beside him on a hunt. Sam should be here to have his back, make banter with him, someone to bounce ideas off… Instead, his brother’s lost somewhere out there in the silence. It makes Dean’s pulse thump harder just to contemplate it.

Dean shakes his head and resumes walking again. Don’t think of Sam. He can’t afford to let his mind run away with images of what torments his brother’s enduring; all he needs to focus on is the immediate task ahead. His heartbeat’s unnervingly making its presence known again, but he tries to stay calm as he finally passes under the archway that’s welcoming him to the _The Carnival._

A long time ago, the region probably did a decent job of emulating the feel of a travelling funfair. There’s the towering shapes of a Helter Skelter and Ferris Wheel off to Dean’s left, while the archway immediately leads into a cluster of attractions arranged in a square. A carousel and a few picnic tables occupy the central space, while opposite Dean can identify the Ghost Train and a coconut shy underneath layers of grime and graffiti.

He passes the carousel, the flaking paint of candy stripes and gold telling of faded hope and happier times that have long since died. The horses look almost monstrous now; all bulging eyes and bared teeth, and Dean feels a shiver run down his spine. He walks past hurriedly, the darkened entrance to the Tunnel of Love opening up on his right. The Fun House isn’t far, just 100 yards away across the square, yet Dean can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to the gaping heart-shaped aperture beside him, feet slowing as it almost seems to suck him in. It’s dark inside. Whatever lies beyond the opening is hidden from view. Could it be that they’ve taken Sam here…?

A gust of wind blows past him, and Dean hears a crackle over the speakers hanging above the entrance. He braces himself, pleading with his heart to stay calm, but instead of the cold voice he’d anticipated, the PA begins to play music. The sound is tinny, hollow.

_Heaven, I’m in Heaven  
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…_

Dean shivers. Of all the possible songs, it had to be that one.

He swallows hard and turns away, thinking the whole thing seems too much like a trap to risk heading into the tunnel, but then a voice cuts over Frank Sinatra’s crooning. “ _What’s the matter, Dean? Afraid of the dark_?”

He freezes, heart suddenly right back in his throat as he slowly turns his head to stare at the speaker. Of course, there’s nothing important to see. “No. Just think I’d rather be searching for my brother than walking into a trap.”

“ _What makes you so sure it’s a trap_?”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “Heart shaped black hole where there could be anything waiting on the other side? Yeah, I’m sure it’s perfectly legit.”

She chuckles. “ _Suit yourself. But even if you’re going to pass on that, don’t forget to keep an eye on your heartbeat_.”

He shoots a glare in the general direction of the speaker. “I’m working on it.”

“ _Good. Because you’re going to have to do better than just avoiding all the places that scare you._ ”

The impossibility of the task is making him angry again, and his heart is only beating harder for it. “What the fuck do you expect me to do? I’ve got a whole park to search and you keep interrupting me just so you can drive my heart rate up. You’re asking the impossible. Sam’s going to run out of blood before I even come close to finding him and you fucking _know it._ ”

There’s silence for a beat, and for a moment he worries that she won’t reply, but then the speaker crackles to life again. “ _Alright, if that’s how you want to play it. Here’s my offer: you’re a healthy man in his thirties, in good shape. Your resting rate should be in the sixties. You get your heartbeat back to its genuinely natural pace, and I’ll let Sammy here have some of his blood back_.”

He balls his fists. “You really think I’ve got a fucking chance of getting it below seventy right now?”

 “ _I said I want to hear your heart at its natural pace. I didn’t say you had to get it there by natural means. That’s your offer. Take it or leave it.”_

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. On the face of it, that seems like one of the best things he could have hoped for in the current circumstances, but he knows it won’t be that simple. “What’s the catch?”

She chuckles. “ _Clever boy, aren’t you?”_

“Yeah, now just fucking tell me what I have to do.” He’s practically snarling.

Her voice turns from its mocking sing-song back to cold and menacing. “ _You walk through the tunnel. Just make it round once, and that deal stands_.”

A few beats pass as Dean considers. He doesn’t know how much good it will do, because he’s sure his heart’s going to be pounding every step through the ride, but just maybe he can buy Sam more time. “How do I know I’ll even make it through the tunnel at all?”

“ _I guess you’ll just have to find out, won’t you_?” she taunts, cold and harsh, and then the speaker goes dead.

There’s a few more moments of silence as Dean decides what to do. He can still walk away: the Fun House where he’d initially been headed is just a few steps away, but if he does this…maybe he’s buying Sam a chance. In the back of his mind, there’s a thought that keeps trying to assert itself which he can’t tell if it's reassurance or the exact opposite. _She wants your heart to keep beating._

For what twisted purpose, he isn’t sure, but if this gives him a chance to keep Sam alive…

Dean takes a few cautious steps closer to the ride. There’s a barrier coming up to the top of his thighs where there used to be a trough for the swan shaped boats to float round, but now there’s only a few inches of water and slime left on the bottom. He clambers over it with ease, grimacing at the soft squelch of grime and algae that begins to cling to his boots. A few more paces take him closer to the darkened entrance. One time, there would no doubt have been some ‘romantic’ lighting to set the mood, but now there’s only shadows.

Dean draws a deep breath and steps inside.

It’s strange how the background noise of the breeze immediately seems to fall silent, leaving only the soft splash of Dean’s footsteps and his breath echoing off the walls. His heartbeat is thunderous in his ears, and he tries to ignore it, not wanting to only make it worse. Gradually, the water seems to be deepening, and a soft hiss escapes him as he feels the wet chill creep up past his ankles and flood into his boots. _Just fucking great._

A hand moves to cautiously untuck his gun from the back of his jeans again as he presses onward.

The darkness closes in quickly, the curve of the tunnel stopping what little light made it in from outside. Dean hadn’t brought a flashlight. They hadn’t anticipated needing one, but even though his phone’s no good for making calls, it can at least be of some use. He slips it out of his pocket, turning on the small light by the camera lens and holding it up in front of him. The glow isn’t much, but it at least allows him to see a few paces ahead. As far as he can make out, there’s nothing really there. Without the lights or a full channel of water, the ride’s nothing more than an empty tunnel of darkness.

Dean manages a few more steps before his foot hits something below the water line and he stumbles, almost losing his balance completely before righting himself. He quickly realises there’s a guider track beneath the water once used to pull the boats around, and he manages to calm his own panic for just a brief moment before something else makes his blood run cold.

His stumbling had disturbed the water, making a loud splash as he tried to avoid falling into it completely, but as he pulls himself back upright, the soft echo of wet footsteps continues to sound behind him. Footsteps that aren’t his own.

Instantly, Dean freezes, fingers tightening around the gun in his hand. Again, he hears it: something trying to match his pace falling out of sync.

_Now what?_

His mind races as he tries to decide what to do, not knowing how much danger he’s really in. She could just be trying to scare him. He has a feeling she doesn’t want his heart to stop beating just yet, but getting it to pound faster is definitely on her cards. And dammit, it seems to be working.

Clenching his jaw, Dean pivots slowly as he brings up the gun and light to point in front of him, staring back down the way he came. He can’t see anything, even when he takes a couples of tentative paces to retrace his steps, but there’s no point trying to pretend his mouth hasn’t gone dry or his pulse hasn’t ratcheted up a notch.

It takes him a couple of seconds to be sure there’s nothing there before he decides to turn around and press on. Even if he is being followed, with his heartbeat at its current pace, it’s better for Sam if he just keeps moving. Dean turns back around to head deeper into the darkness, trying to take quicker, more confident steps. He’s sure he must have made it at least half way through the tunnel by now when the light from his phone suddenly hits a shape and once again he freezes. Traitorously, his heart gives a thump, but then he breathes a sigh of relief as he takes in the dirty, off-white surfaces of one of the swan boats.

Of course, he should have expected to run into one sooner or later. It’s run aground, the knee-high water too shallow to grant it any buoyancy, but Dean thinks he can still make it past. Perhaps if he climbs over it…

He approaches feeling reasonably confident, determined that he can complete the challenge by now as he clambers up over the side of the boat into the drier surface inside the swan. Up ahead, he thinks he can see the faint glow of daylight landing on one of the tunnel’s walls, and it gives him a renewed sense of hope as he moves towards it. He’s just about to climb down from the boat again when out of nowhere, a face appears from behind the curve of the swan’s neck. Dean jumps, firing his gun with less instinct and more blind panic than he’ll ever admit towards the creature’s face. He recognises those eyes, blank and staring as it rushes at him with surprising speed. Its arms reach forward: one terminating in an actual mechanical hand, the other with a razor blade.

Dean squeezes the trigger again and hears the clang of metal as his bullet strikes. It seems to at least be slowing the thing down, knocking it back into the water, and Dean lets off another round with a defiant snarl as he sees something spark blue in the mannequin’s chest. There’s a hiss, its movements become jerky as it struggles to get back to its feet, and Dean wonders if he’s managed to short-circuit whatever mechanism is powering it. He doesn’t have long to dwell on that small victory before something slams into him from behind.

He tumbles from the boat, landing hard in the water so that his shoulder collides with the guider track. A cry of pain leaves his throat as the phone falls from his hands, but he tightens his grip on the gun and fires blindly into the dark. For a few heartbeats, there’s the sound of splashing and whirring mechanics frighteningly close by, until Dean sees another spark as a bullet glances off of metal. Both hands come up to grip the gun, firing a rapid cluster in the direction he knew he’d struck a target as he prays he’ll see the blue flash of a short circuit again.

The only thing that meets his eye is a small pinprick of light as he succeeds in shooting a hole in the tunnel’s wall, and then that too is gone as something hard collides with the back of his head and suddenly his face is in the water.


	6. Welcome To The House Of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now you're here, there's nowhere to run...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anybody else think this would make a good video game? Because it's 90% inspired by video games.

An unrelenting weight presses down on the back of Dean’s head as he struggles for air. His earlier confidence that she won’t kill him evaporates in an instant, blood pounding hard and thunderous in his ears. He can’t hold his breath for long. His lungs are only half full and if he doesn’t get oxygen in the next few seconds…

He must be fighting for less than a minute, but it seems like far longer. The strength begins to seep from his muscles, replaced instead with the bone-aching chill of the water. He’s hyper-aware of each thump of his heart, slowing from its panicked gallop into heavy, laborious beats that it barely seems able to maintain. Part of his mind vaguely registers that that ought to be good, until it’s overruled by the part that reminds him his heart seems ready to just straight up stop.

Then, the pressure lets up.

Dean’s head shoots out of the water, a deep, long breath being dragged desperately into his lungs. He coughs, gasps for air, then finally manages to calm the heaving of his chest. In the pitch black, he hears the groan and splash of metal footsteps receding, and then there’s nothing but the ragged pants of his own breathing. It takes several seconds for his head to stop spinning. _What the hell just happened…?_

He looks around, unable to see anything but the faint glimmer of daylight several meters away. His hands briefly scrabble under the water for the gun, feeling a wave of relief when his fingers close on metal, but he knows his phone is probably too fucked by now to be worth retrieving. For whatever reason, she seems to have let him go. Right now, he’s not going to look that gift horse in the mouth.

He’s shivering slightly as he makes his way further through the tunnel, a breeze managing to blow in to further chill the wetness soaking his clothes. It’s a relief to make it back out into the daylight, where he scrambles over the barrier and all but collapses onto the ground. His chest heaves with each breath. “Alright,” he murmurs, trying to calm himself. “I made it. You see that?” His voice gets louder. “I made it.” There’s no reply but the quiet sound but the wind.

Dean gulps down a couple more breaths then presses his fingers to his throat, lifting his other hand to look at his watch. It’s at that point he remembers it’s a sports watch and there’s supposed to be a built in function to keep track of his heart rate, but it unfortunately needs a chest strap. Instead, he times his pulse manually, counting what he thinks is 38 beats in half a minute. Slower than expected.

“Cold water makes your heart rate drop,” he hears Sam say in his ear. “But shivering can bring it up again.”

Still. 76. That’s safe. It won’t be harming Sam any further.

He lies like that for several minutes, drawing deep breaths as he wills his heart rate to drop lower. He completed the challenge. That means he only needs to drop a few more beats to buy back Sam some blood. When he next checks his pulse, it’s hovering on the cusp of 70. Close enough.

Dean stays on the floor for as long as he thinks he can afford. If every minute his heart spent racing is a minute he can buy back, by the time twenty minutes have passed he thinks Sam must be back in the green again. If she’s honouring her word, that is. He has no idea, as the loudspeakers all around remain ominously silent.

The sky is beginning to take on the dull grey of a cloudy fall evening, and he knows he should get moving again before the light fades. He doesn’t reckon much to his chances of finding Sam in the dark. It takes no small amount of effort to drag himself back to his feet, both his neck and his injured shoulder protesting as he picks himself up and begins the short walk to the Fun House.

Garish paint still clings to the side of the building, the manic face of a clown grinning widely as its mouth forms the entranceway. The thick growth of wild heather and foxgloves that have sprung up around the doorway give the unsettling impression of vomit, and Dean grimaces as he passes through the threshold. Sam would hate this.

His footsteps are unnervingly loud as he takes a few tentative steps inside. He can still feel the wetness of his clothes clinging to his skin, uncomfortable and chafing, but it’s a welcome distraction from his heartbeat which has begun to thump faster again.

Dean’s first few steps take him into a room where the walls are painted in a red and yellow swirl, which might have been more dizzying had there been more light to see. As it is, the room seems completely empty as Dean advances further, pausing to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He’s about to proceed to the opening in the opposite wall when he hears a noise from behind.

Instantly, he tenses, reaching for his gun again as he slowly turns his head. Before he can even squint into the dark, the sound of some clicking followed by a rumbling hits his ears.

Then the Fun House comes to life.

Lights immediately spring up around him, twinkling disco spots of every color hitting the candy striped walls. Dean’s almost thrown off his feet as the floor begins to move, adjacent strips sliding first one way, then the other, so he ends up clutching at the wall for support. Loud, tinny music hits his ears.

_Welcome to the House of Fun_  
_Now I've come of age_  
_Welcome to the lion's den_  
_Temptation's on his way_  
_Welcome to the House of Fun…_

A shout of anger and frustration leaves his mouth as he realises she’s mocking him. “Yeah, real appropriate,” he snarls, stumbling forward until he half falls into the next room and leaves the shifting floor behind. The next space is illuminated in rapidly changing ambient light, switching quickly from solid red to yellow to green as he realises he’s got to battle through suspended sandbags swinging from the ceiling. He brings up his arms to shield his still-tender head as he pushes his way through, but part of him is hoping that if she’s going to these lengths to obstruct him, he’s on the right track.

His injured shoulder stings sharply as it takes a particularly rough blow, but he manages to stagger through into a Maze of Mirrors. His mouth goes dry, glancing round as he realises he’s staring at mirrors on all sides: some distorting his image, some just decoys for the empty space opposite. He has no idea what could be hiding behind any corner, and cautiously, he draws his gun. Madness continues to assault his ears.

Dean takes a few tentative steps, trying to keep his eyes on the floor instead of being misled by the myriad reflections surrounding him. Even so, he can’t help but notice he isn’t looking good. His clothes are dirtied from the grimy water – and god knows how much of that he swallowed – but it hasn’t been quite enough to wash away the blood still crusted on the side of his head. Maybe it’s just the unnatural blue light, but he thinks he looks pale, the skin under his eyes turning grey. He can’t exactly pretend he’s feeling great either, but Sam must be worse. Dean grits his teeth and looks away.

He’s made it a few steps further when movement in the corner of his vision makes him look up. He draws a breath, glancing back over his shoulder in case he’ll see it again, but the mirrors are so disorienting it could have come from anywhere. He’s about to take another step when, turning, he sees it. The gun comes up in an instant, firing rapidly at the crazed clown face advancing on him through the dark. The bullet strikes, glass shatters, and Dean feels something slam hard into him as the real attack comes from behind. It pummels into the already-bruised side of his head, sending him hurtling into the mirrors that crack beneath his weight. The shards bite at his palms as he tries to pick himself up, but he doesn’t have chance before he feels a metal hand fisting in the back of his jacket and he’s suddenly being hurled across the floor again.

More mirrors break and he groans, shaking his head to clear the stars from his vision as he tries to aim the gun again. Somehow he’s still clinging to it, firing desperately at the rapidly advancing automaton. Two shots miss, his shaking hand sending them wide, and then the clown is almost in his face, so close that there’s no way the next bullet isn’t going straight into its head and blowing out whatever mechanism is whirring behind those blank eyes.

Dean pulls the trigger and hears the magazine click on empty.

There’s no time for him to process; no time for the fear to really take hold before he feels a metal hand close around his throat. The automaton raises its arm, leaving him kicking frantically as his feet leave the floor and he tries to draw breath. For the second time in an hour Dean thinks he’s in danger of asphyxiating. His eyes begin to bulge.

The gun’s empty, but he still has the machete.

His hands are clumsy as they fumble for it, black spots dancing across his vision even as he _knows_ he has to find a weak spot. There’s no point slashing. There’s only one way this is going to work.

Dean stabs hard, aiming the tip of the machete at the point where the clown’s face meets its neck, driving into the soft plastic beneath its chin. The blade sinks in, severing wires, jamming in the gears grinding in its torso. Dean feels the clown’s grip go slack

He gasps for air as he falls to the ground, coughing as he rubs at his aching neck. The clown topples, leaving Dean to twist out of the way as it collides face-first with the floor, and he doesn’t have chance to try retrieving the machete before he sees it break clean with the impact.  _Fuck._

Now he’s unarmed and he doesn’t know if his heart’s ever going to recover, but at least he’s alive. He can’t say for how long.

Through the dark a second clown is advancing on him, and he can see that one’s left arm terminates in an axe. He’s not taking his chances with that. As much as it galls him, he turns and runs.

The broken mirrors have opened up a clear pathway for Dean to make it to another room, and he moves as fast as he can towards the glowing circle of light. He’d been wrong about the Tunnel of Love being the trap, he realises. This was where they’d been expecting him all along.

As he arrives at the start of a walkway that leads through a green-illuminated, rotating cylindrical tunnel, the music finally changes.

_We're no strangers to love_  
_You know the rules and so do I_  
_A full commitment's what I'm thinking of_  
_You wouldn't get this from any other guy_

He’d be snarling more profanities if he wasn’t struggling so much to draw breath.

The tunnel is already dizzying as he stares down at the patterns on the rotating walls, but he thinks he can see the natural glow of daylight up ahead. If he can just make it out of here…

He knows the clown is close behind him, and there’s no time to prepare himself as he takes the first few steps. The vertigo hits him hard, another wave of nausea sweeping over his already pounding head. His hands grasp at the railings either side of the walkway as he stumbles on.

His heart strains inside his chest, feeling almost ready to break free from his ribs as each beat hits his sternum like a hammer. He tries closing his eyes, but finds it only makes his knees want to give out. There’s no chance to look back as he tries to focus on the light in front.

He’s within five steps of making it when, without warning, another silhouette appears blocking his escape. He blinks, unfocussed, as he once again hears the menacing whir of machinery, and then sees the glinting disc of the buzzsaw at the end of the clown’s right arm.

There’s barely chance for him to stumble back as the weapon rises in an arc towards him. It descends, Dean twists desperately away, and then cries out as the blade makes contact with his upper right arm. Blood sprays, painting the ever-turning walls with flecks of crimson.

His heartbeat is a panicked thrum as he grasps frantically for the railing again, almost overcome by the urge to vomit as his stomach churns and head spins. There’s nowhere for him to go. Glancing back along the walkway, he can see the axe clown has already reached the tunnel, weapon raised as it advances.

Only one thing for it, then.

Using all that’s left of his energy, Dean vaults the railing. He lands hard on the tunnel wall, feeling the shockwave shoot up from his ankles as it rattles all along his spine. Relentless, the tunnel continues to turn, leaving him rolling so that he feels his elbows and knees and face hit the side over and over and over. His vision blacks out just long enough that he thinks it might not come back, then he finds himself staring back up at daylight ahead.

It's all he can focus on as he tries to scramble towards it, falling over and over until he at last manages to crawl over the edge and fall, undignified, onto the grass on the other side. Gasping for breath, he fights the urge to just lie there and not get up. The clowns are still watching. Neither has made a move to pursue, but there’s a metal staircase leading down from the walkway that they could take if they wanted, and he knows he has to keep moving.

Dean rolls onto his side and vomits, his whole body shaking as he empties the contents of his stomach onto the ground. It’s a fight to regain control of his body before he’s finally done, clambering shakily back to his feet and staggering onward.


	7. Digitalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't miss.

_Breathe._

Dean stumbles, hands grasping for support against the garishly painted façade of the Fun House. His head is pounding and shadows blur his vision with each pulse of his heart, making each step unsteady as his struggles to stay conscious. Blood seeps out of the cut on his arm, throbbing painfully as it steadily drains what little energy he has left.

_Come on, breathe. You gotta get away from those things back there and calm down…_

He tries to steady the shaking of his chest, fighting to even out the heaving, irregular gulps as he sucks down air, but his muscles won’t co-operate. Each breath feels like razor blades tearing at his throat, painfully refusing to even out into the deep, slow breaths he needs to steady his heart.

_Focus, Dean! She’s gonna bleed Sam dry if you don’t get a handle on this._

From somewhere above him, breaking through the deafening pounding of his blood, he hears a crackle over the park’s loudspeakers as they spring to life again. “ _Did my pets frighten you, Dean?”_ The voice is cold and taunting as it blares at him through the silence. _“Your poor little heart sounds so scared…”_

“Fuck you!” he snarls back, the words tasting of blood in his mouth. Fuck the monstrous little bitch. When he finds her, he’s gonna rip her limb from limb and tear her own rotten heart out…

A laugh sounds over the speakers, chilling him to the bone. “ _No you won’t, Dean_.” For a moment, he wonders if she can hear his thoughts now, just like she can hear his heart, but then he realises he shouted it out loud. “ _I don’t have one.”_

Nausea creeps through his gut as he once again wonders what the hell he’s dealing with. What kind of monster is capable of this? What is it that’s captured Sam? “I’m still gonna tear you apart,” he growls defiantly, but it’s made infinitely less threatening as his knees give out from under him and he collapses to the floor.

She tuts at him. “ _Poor Sammy’s not looking too hot here, Dean. If he loses any more blood, I think his heart might just stop.”_

“Please!” He loathes having to beg; despises it with all his being, but he’s so out of his depth he doesn’t know what options are left. If he can’t get his heart rate to slow down she’s just gonna bleed Sam faster and faster until there’s nothing left, and he’s too exhausted and terrified to get the muscle in his chest to co-operate. “I just need more time, alright? Please, stop bleeding him. My heart just needs time to slow down.”

“ _Oh, I don’t think it’s going to be slowing for a while.”_

Dean swallows heavily, a fresh wave of horror sweeping over him as he stares down at the blood seeping from his arm and realises. “You poisoned the blade?!”

“ _Yep._ ” She sounds positively amused. “ _Not enough to kill you, but I suspect you’re going to be feeling ill for a bit. Your heart will definitely be racing for some time_.”

Anger bubbles up inside him, threatening to boil over despite his exhaustion. “That’s fucking _cheating!_ ”

“ _It’s my game, Dean; I make the rules.”_

“Look… _please.”_ He’s desperate now. “If you’re gonna do this, just take me, alright? I can’t win now anyway, so please just take me and let Sam go.”

A sigh rings out through the air. “ _No, Dean, you’re not getting it. I don’t want you. I just want a beating heart I can play with, and yours has been pretty fun so far. If you’re a good sport, your reward is that I’ll let Sam go. So how about instead of quitting on me, you keep playing the game_?”

“How?” he gasps out breathlessly, all too aware of the traitorous pounding in his chest. That thumping is killing his brother, and he’s helpless to stop it. “If I don’t slow down my heart, you’re just gonna bleed Sam dry in minutes.”

“ _So slow it down, then,_ ” she drawls. “ _I’ll even help, if you like.”_

That makes him suspicious. “Why?”

“ _This is a fun game, Dean. I’d be disappointed if we had to end it now.”_

He grimaces, hating everything about this, but he has little choice but to listen. “Alright, what do I do?”

 _“Fun House entrance booth,_ ” she directs him. “ _There’s a syringe underneath the control panel. Just a little something I concocted from the flora around here. You inject yourself with it, it’ll get your heartbeat back under control. Hurry, Dean. I don’t think Sam has long.”_ The speakers go dead.

This may well be another trap, but there isn’t time to come up with a different plan. Straining, Dean hauls himself to his feet. His limbs are shaking and he has no idea how he’s even managing to stay upright, but through his hazed vision he manages to hone in on the blurred shape of the entrance booth. It’s only a few yards away, but in his current state, crossing the distance feels like a mile.

He reaches it eventually, stumbling through the doorway and hands immediately fumbling for the control panel. Panic grips him as he can’t find the syringe that was promised, but then feels a mild surge of relief as his eyes land on the shape of a needle and plunger lying on the plastic chair. With trembling hands, he grasps onto it and then collapses to the ground again.

 _Now what?_ he finds himself thinking. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to use it, but he’s spared having to guess as the speaker of the booth’s intercom crackles to life.

“ _Well done, Dean. You made it!”_ Sickeningly, she does actually sound pleased. “ _And Sammy’s hanging in there, too. You’re both doing so well.”_

“Alright, shut up!” he snaps in desperation. “Now what do I do?”

“ _You need to inject it into a vein,”_ she instructs, sounding like she’s mocking him. “ _You know how junkies shoot themselves up. Use your belt as a tourniquet, get your veins to pop, then just stab it in.”_

His head is swimming, but he just about has enough lucidity left to slip his belt off and then tighten it around his left upper arm, pushing up his sleeve. He knows what he’s supposed to do, but his hands are shaking and vision clouded and he doesn’t know if he can pull it off. Still, there’s nothing else for him to do but try.

_Okay, Dean, focus! Got to find a vein…_

He’s gripping the syringe in his right hand, thumb on the plunger as he brings the needle to hover over the exposed skin of his inside elbow. The metal point is horribly wide, but it barely even registers with him.

_Need a vein. This won’t work if I miss. Come on…_

He presses a fingertip to the thin skin, trying to feel for a pulse, but he honestly can’t distinguish between the throbbing in his head and that in his arm. It isn’t helped when a moment later the dull percussion of a heartbeat fills his ears, much too sluggish to be his own, as it blasts out over the intercom. _“Sammy’s heart’s getting awful slow,”_ comes her sickening voice again. “ _I think you need to get yours to do something similar before it stops completely…”_

“I’m trying!” Dean tries to shout, but he’s so nauseated and panicked he’s not sure how much of that actually comes out.

There’s no time to be precise. He’s got to do it now.

_Stab._

In an instant, the needle sinks in, punching past the thin fleshy barrier to the tissues underneath. Dean stares down at it, blinking as he tries to focus on the narrow rod of metal protruding from his arm and realising he can barely feel the pain. He has just enough strength and presence of mind left to depress the plunger.

_Come on come on…_

He holds his breath. Waits. A second passes. Two. Maybe it takes time to work, but in his gut Dean already knows he missed. His heart’s still beating a bruising tattoo against his ribs, mocking him with each beat, and Dean knows he failed.

_No no no no no no no…_

The panic has barely had time to take hold before the heartbeat on the intercom stops.

Dean’s breath catches. The pit of his stomach drops out, and for the first time in what feels like hours, he swears his heart skips a beat.

_No._

That can’t have been Sam’s heart stopping. It’s just her fucking with him. _Please…_ _don’t let Sam be dead._

“No!” he screams out, desperate to hear her talking again and telling him this is all part of the game, but all he’s met with is static. “No, let me try again! I’ll get it right!”

He’s trying to crawl over to the intercom, yelling at it as if that will help, but as he does so a shadow falls over him. His head twists to turn towards the doorway, and horror clenches in his gut as he sees the silhouette of one of the same monsters from earlier looming over him.

With pure panic flooding every inch of his body, he turns to scream into the intercom again. “This isn’t over, _you bitch!_ Not now! If Sammy’s dead I’ll fucking _kill you_!”

His cries are answered by nothing but white noise before he feels the monster’s grotesque hand on his back, fisting in his jacket as it yanks him upwards and flips him to slam him down hard onto the control panel. The breath is forced from Dean’s body and he grunts, feeling blood spill into his mouth as darkness washes over his vision.

“No…” It’s the only word he can manage, leaving his lips in a faint gurgle as he stares up at the creature above him. He can see nothing save for the blank, painted-on eyes and the faint shadow of its arm raising to strike. As its hand descends, the last thing Dean is aware of is the pain of something sharp and narrow penetrating his chest before everything goes black.


	8. Interlude I

Everything is dark. A dense fog has settled on Sam’s brain, making every thought seem heavy and sluggish as it tries to form. His head feels like it’s been hit by a sledgehammer. If the sporadic flashes of memory returning to him are true, then that doesn’t seem so far off the mark. _Case…amusement park…clowns…Dean…_

_Dean._

That’s the thought that forces its way past everything else to the front of his mind. What happened to his brother? Is he alright?

Sam tries to call out, but the only sound that leaves his lips is a moan. His head swims.

“There, there, Sammy.” A voice hits his ears, cold and harsh, and it’s like fingernails raking down the inside of his skull. “Don’t worry, your brother’s doing so well. He has a strong heart and he’s being such a good sport…”

That draws another moan from Sam’s throat, confusion and fear taking tight hold. His fists clench, but his limbs feel too weak and heavy to move. His heart flutters in panic.

“Shhhh…” Something cold touches his forehead. His eyelids strain to crack open, and he thinks he sees a shape: blurry, maybe humanoid, mostly lost in the shadows. He hears the dripping of a leaky faucet.

“You’re a big boy, Sam. Lots of blood to drain,” the voice says again, closer to his ear. “I think you have some time left yet.” His vision still swims as he tries to focus. He thinks he sees tubes surrounding him, filled with red. A needle in an IV port…

“But we can’t have you waking up too much now.”

Pain suddenly sears behind his eyes, and he groans again, this time louder. His nerves feel like they’re on fire.

“Go back to sleep…”

Fortunately, the pain is only shortlived as his eyelids slip closed and unconsciousness creeps up to claim him once again.


	9. First Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen to your heart, Dean.

Harsh air rasps down Dean’s throat as consciousness hits him again like a hammer blow. He gasps, coughing and spluttering as a sharp ache pangs behind his ribs, one hand flying up to clutch at his chest. Shadows and blurred spots dance across his vision, but as he blinks them away, he’s aware enough to tell that he’s still in the Fun House control booth. And, miraculously, still alive.

Dean groans, trying to sit up and rest against the wall as he attempts to figure out what happened. The creature from earlier has vanished, having apparently left him lying on the floor after he lost consciousness, but as far as Dean can tell, he isn’t harmed. A sharp spike of fear pricks at his spine as he wonders why.

The thought of Sam flashes across his mind, triggering a wave of panic that makes him suck in a sharp breath. As his chest expands, he feels a sudden stabbing pain somewhere behind his sternum and his breath instantly catches, the hand grasping at his heart clutching tighter. He hasn’t forgotten what happened before he blacked out, and fear is very quickly threatening to overwhelm him again. His head drops, leaving him staring down at his own chest as he gingerly eases his hand away. He can see there’s just the tiniest of holes in his t-shirt, a slight disturbance to the weave of the fabric. With his confusion quickly turning to dread, Dean reaches down to lift the hem of his shirt and examine the bare skin below.

With the material hitched up to his chin, he has a clear view of the upper portion of his chest. Between his ribs, just to the left of his sternum, he can see a small purplish bruise is forming. Right in the centre of it is the swollen red point of a puncture mark.

Nausea sweeps over him as he realises what happened, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the wall as he brings his hand to rest flat over the wound. Needle straight to the heart. God knows what other damage it’s done, but she flooded his heart directly with chemicals to stop it pounding so hard. That really must mean she wants him to live, if only to prolong his torment, and he’s praying that means she’s done the same for Sam too. If his brother’s still alive, Dean still has a chance to get him out.

For the next few moments he focuses on taking deep, calming breaths, hoping that the uncomfortable ache in his chest will start to ease. He can feel his heart knocking against his hand, and although the pace is slow enough to be safe, the force of each beat is like a hard kick into his ribs. The pain doesn’t seem to be easing.

He’s barely had chance to grow accustomed to it and figure out what to do next when the speaker sitting on the counter top crackles to life again. _“Good morning, Dean. Glad to see you’re awake._ ”

He shoots it a glare, even though the noise has started to make his heart beat harder and he fights to get that under control. Is it really morning? The last he remembers is the daylight slowly fading as he escaped the Fun House, but the current darkness outside looks like it belongs to the dead of night. He supposes midnight must have long since passed. “How’s Sam? He alive?” he growls at the speaker, his voice gruff and exhausted.

She responds with a tut. “ _Really, now. Not even a greeting…”_

“Is he?”

He hears a sigh on the other end before she answers his demand. “ _Yes, Dean. Don’t you worry about little Sammy. I was very kind sending my pet to help you when you couldn’t get your heart to slow down, and like I promised, if you get it under seventy beats per minute, I’ll give your brother some of his blood back. Just don’t expect me to be so nice again. Next time, that rule won’t apply if you’re unconscious.”_

Dean swallows, and he hates himself for actually feeling grateful that she didn’t just kill them both. “Well, don’t be worrying about that, because I won’t be sleeping again until I’ve found Sam and put a bullet between your eyes,” he snarls, at last having the strength to get unsteadily to his feet. He’s regained his focus and knows he has to keep searching.

She seems unamused. “ _Dean, do stop fantasizing about absurdly implausible ways of killing me_ ,” she berates in a tone of annoyance, “ _As if a bullet would work. Now, don’t you think you need to go check on your heart before you do anything else? It’s sounding awfully battered by that needle, and I’d hate for it to give out before we get to the end of our game.”_

He scowls, but he thinks he ought to hear what she has to say next. “You’re the one who fucking decided to have me stabbed in the heart in the first place. Now what do you want me to do to it?”

“ _Go find the first aid room. It’s in the courtyard in the Family Funland region of the park. There’s a stethoscope in there I want you to listen to your heart with, and some drugs you might be glad of too. I want you to tell me if you can hear any murmurs and if I hit any valves with that needle_.”

Dean’s stomach is swirling uncomfortably again as he becomes hyper-aware of each beat of his heart. “I thought you could already hear it?”

“ _Oh, I can, but I want_ you _to hear it. That’s the fun part. It’s making such beautiful noises…”_

That’s the part where he has to turn and start walking away, his jaw firmly clenched. His chest is a horrible knotted ball of pain right now, and he knows that she’s calling the sound of each agonized heartbeat beautiful. The twisted, psychopathic, sadistic _little bitch_ …

He’s grateful that her voice doesn’t follow him out of the booth, although he’s immensely cautious as he crosses the park, keeping an eye out for any more of the mechanical monsters she has on patrol. He’s disoriented and still feeling horribly weak and nauseous, but through the dim light he manages to spot the grimy signs in obscenely cheerful lettering that point him towards the Family Funland area of the park, and he just about manages to get his body to co-operate as he follows them.

Now that he’s been left without any real weapon should he run into the automatons again, he hates how vulnerable he feels. The darkness puts him on edge, knowing there could be danger lurking with each step or something else out there watching him. What really bites is that the Impala is parked up just a short walk away with an entire arsenal in the trunk, but he can’t leave the park gates lest Sam…

He doesn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

“C’mon, Cas,” he instead says under his breath. “I’m not dicking around. If you can hear me, get your ass down here.”

As both feared and expected, there’s no response.

More aches and pains continue to spring forth as Dean keeps walking. The night has mostly dried out his clothes, but there’s still a clamminess in the way his t-shirt clings to his skin and his jeans chafe uncomfortably between his thighs. The discomfort and pain leave his face distorted in a grimace. He’s not exactly unused to taking a beating, but the whole ordeal was more punishing than anything he’s been through for a while. His chest feels tight, his limbs ache, and the pounding in his skull just won’t relent. He can’t even remember the last time he ate. Both his stomach and the rest of him don’t seem to be taking that well, leaving him lightheaded as the hell of the Fun House has drained him to the last of his energy reserves. The image of Sam, pale from blood loss, dances in front of his eyes.

Dean puts one foot in front of the other and presses on.

As the minutes pass, the sky slowly eases from an inky black into the royal blue of pre-dawn. He’d been unconscious most of the night, he realises. Surely long enough that Sam’s blood is back to normal by now, yet he can’t get the memory of the heavy, funeral march heartbeat out of his head. The pained moans from earlier still haunt him. Even with his heartbeat currently under control, Dean knows his brother is still far from safe.

There’s the unsettling question he can’t answer of why he and Sam are still alive at all. Wherever the faceless voice is directing him, he can only pray that it’s taking him closer to his brother, yet he daren’t even guess at the sinister agenda he’s now pawn to.

When he at last makes it, the silhouette of a discount Disney castle welcomes him to “Family Funland”. He scowls at the tackiness as he crosses the “drawbridge” spanning a shallow ditch and then passes through the gateway to the courtyard beyond. There are more attractions if he were to venture down the avenue curving off to his right, yet the first aid room is immediately in front of him: an alcove in the castle wall marked by a green canopy extending into the courtyard, “First Aid” clearly signposted above. It doesn’t look to him like there’s much there.

Cautiously, Dean ventures forward toward a door marked “Staff Only”. Nothing happens save for the hinges creaking as he pushes it open, and then takes a step further into the darkened room. It’s bright enough that he spies the light switch on the wall to his right, and is mildly surprised when pressing it causes halogen lights above him to spring to life.

Any faintly successful illusion of a fairytale castle immediately disintegrates. It’s just a plain office-type space, with a few old park posters adorning the noticeboards and a handful of hard-backed chairs surrounding the remnants of a pot plant. One corner features a sink and a few cupboards beside the second doorway, while opposite is a desk with an old, off-white block of a computer monitor situated in front of a swivel chair. Dean can see the white of a blinking cursor in the top left of the blank screen.

Glancing at the state of the Compaq tower on the desk beside it, he doubts it’s ever going to boot.

He walks in the direction of the desk, eyes scanning over the various documents left gathering dust on its surface. One of the flyers jumps out at him: an exaggerated gothic font advertising the _Haunted Halls,_ cheap looking stock images of an Egyptian mummy, a hooded axeman, and a deranged scalpel-wielding doctor photoshopped badly beneath it. The tagline reads: _Come visit our Halls of Horror! A true terror experience featuring real haunted artefacts acquired from the Wheatley Memorial Museum._ His instinct to scoff at it is less strong now that Sam isn’t here.

The flyer gets swept to one side as Dean’s attention turns to a black A4 composition book, the handwritten label on its cover identifying it as the Accident Report Log. Curiosity gets the better of him as he blows off the dust and starts to flip through the pages, passing over the scores of minor incidents until he gets to the date he’d been looking for: March 12th 2003\. All that’s written is: _Major accident on the Flatliner. Full incident report to follow._ The handwriting is shaky, as if it had been written in a panic. Well. He wasn’t sure what else he’d expected. The quaint little first aid book hardly seems adequate to record the full extent of the carnage. Five dead and a further eighteen casualties, if Dean recalls correctly. The second major accident on the ride in under two years.

He flicks back to the start, looking to see if the first incident had been recorded in a similar fashion, but unsurprisingly the book only goes back as far as September 2002. The March 12th entry is the final one, falling approximately a third of the way through the notebook. A rather morbid way to end things.

With a slight grimace, Dean closes the book and turns away again. The next place he heads for is the sink, turning the faucet and swearing under his breath when no water comes out, although he hadn’t been holding out much hope. The cupboards seem like the logical next option, and reaches up to search the one on his upper right. As he turns back around, something catches his eye:

The computer screen. Where there was only a blinking cursor before, there’s now two words of text.

Dean feels his heart rate pick up again.

He abandons the cupboards, muscles tensed as he approaches the monitor. Getting closer brings the words into focus, sending a chill down his spine. _Hello, Dean._

Mouth dry, he hovers for a moment, fingers halfway reaching for the dust-covered keyboard. He doesn’t know if he should respond, but then the cursor rapidly sweeps out another line of text.

_No need to type. I can hear you just fine. Your heart’s still going strong, I see._

He grits his teeth and spits, “What do you want?”

_Just making sure you hadn’t forgotten what I asked. The first aid kit is in the cupboard behind you._

“Yeah, I was getting to that,” he grunts, turning away again and going to retrieve the green box marked with a cross. “Although I could really use some water.”

In response, a gurgle rumbles through the pipes and then the faucet sputters, a stream of water beginning to flow into the sink. It looks surprisingly clean, even smells it as Dean rushes to cup his hands and leans in to drink. He gulps it down fast enough that he’s twisting his head to try and drink straight from the faucet before his mouth finally stops feeling like sandpaper, thirst no longer plaguing him. He straightens up and drags a hand over his scowling mouth. It’s still hardly enough to earn her any thanks.

He refuses to look at the computer again as he pulls out the kit and gets to work, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the desk. The stethoscope remains in the cupboard, no more than a fleeting glance spared for it, but Dean will get to it when he knows he can’t put it off any longer. The cut on his arm needs seeing to.

There are just a handful of painkillers left in the bottom of the medkit, which he swallows down with a mouthful of water before attempting to touch the wound. Pain contorts his face into a grimace as his fingers probe the cut, skin sliced almost down to muscle. It stings horribly as he tries to wash away the worst of the blood, followed by a splash of hydrogen peroxide before he begins to sterilise a suture needle. Then he remembers the chemical has probably long since expired.

It’s not like he has much choice as he swabs a sterile wipe over the needle and then his skin, hissing through gritted teeth. He’s no stranger to stitching his own wounds, but he wishes he weren’t feeling so generally sick besides. Whatever poison she used, while not fatal, its effects are still brutal enough.

His teeth remain tightly clenched together as he pushes the needle through the severed flaps of skin, the painkillers doing little to even take the edge off. It’s not an easy task, but Dean manages to make a crude row of stitches sealing his skin back together before bandaging it firmly, feeling the wound throb in time with his pulse. It’s beginning to creep up too fast again, he can tell. He tries to get it under control as he turns to assessing the rest of his injuries.

The mirror above the sinks tells him more starkly than ever how bad he looks. An angry red bruise is blossoming across his left cheek, the skin across the bone grazed and bloodied. His chest feels sore, tender, and he wouldn't be surprised if the tunnel earlier cracked a couple of ribs. There's little he can do but try to clean away the crusted blood from his face, but there's no means to return any color to his pale cheeks or bring back a spark to his bleary, dull eyes. He needs to eat soon. And more than that, he needs to find Sam.

Another line of text has appeared on the monitor by the time he turns back to it.

_Dean. Aren’t you forgetting something?_


	10. Hurt Locker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear it beating?

Wordlessly, Dean clenches his jaw and goes to retrieve the stethoscope. He doesn’t want to do this. It makes his stomach churn to know she seems to be getting a kick out of it, but if he doesn’t…

He tells himself this is for Sam and looks back to the screen.

_Good. Now put it on._

Dean does. The instrument isn’t anything flashy: plain black tubing and a chestpiece comprising a flat silver disc. Basic and cheap. He’s seen fancier on _Dr Sexy, MD_ , but it’s still enough to be functional. His mouth starts to dry out again as he brings the diaphragm towards his chest.

_No. Not over your shirt. Directly on skin._

His hand freezes halfway as he gives the computer a dirty look. The knuckles on his free hand are turning white. “ _Fuck you,”_ he snarls under his breath. _Fuck you for making me play along. Fuck you for all of this you sick, twisted bitch…_

The thoughts don’t stop him from hitching up his shirt and pressing the diaphragm to his bare chest.

_Well done. Now show me._

That confuses him briefly. “Show you what? I thought you could already see?”

_In a manner. I’d like a nice clean visual for my records. Turn to the security camera up to your right._

Stomach churning, Dean looks up to see the camera and obediently turns. He bites his lip as he glances left again toward the screen.

 _Excellent. It looks good on your chest,_ she types, and he feels a surge of anger and humiliation.

“You having fun? Must be tough waiting for strangers to come along so you can play your fucked up game and get yourself off.”

The response isn’t what he’d expected, but it still chills him.

_The last one wasn’t quite as co-operative as you._

He doesn’t have time to wonder at there being others before him before she puts him in his place.

_But mind your manners, Dean. I won’t tolerate that attitude. Now watch the screen again._

He resists the urge to turn his back completely as he looks away. She’s toying with him, but right now she isn’t _hurting_ him. Or Sam. He can find some small solace in that.

_How is it sounding?_

“Too fast,” he snarls. “And you know it.”

_Perhaps you best calm down, then._

He’s trying. Really, he’s trying, forcing each breath to be slow and even, but fuck this is hard.

 _That’s better,_ he reads after a few seconds, but he can’t say he’s felt much difference. _Now how about that valve? Take a listen in the center._

With his skin crawling in protest, Dean slides the stethoscope closer to his sternum. Pain twinges as he presses on the puncture mark, drawing his face into a grimace. He listens.

_How is it?_

“There’s a, um…grating sound.”

_Oh dear. That’s not good._

That’s more than Dean can take. He wrenches the instrument out of his ears and flings it down on the desk. “Alright, I did what you asked. Now you said there’d be pills. Something to get my heart rate under control.”

_Well, there’s nothing in here._

He’s half tempted to pick up the office chair and put it through the fucking screen. “Where, then?”

_One of the park staff used to have a prescription for beta blockers. There might be a few left behind in his locker, if you’re lucky. It’s number 27._

It’s hardly the most helpful she could have been, but it’s something. He tries not to lose his patience. “Where are the lockers?”

_Why don’t you go find out?_

He’s not about to waste any more time. Dean snatches up his jacket again and pulls it back on, wincing as he disturbs the dressing. A sudden rush of nerves sweeps over him as he finds himself in front of the second door leading out of the room, but he cautiously pushes it open and prays he won’t see any more of the patrolling monsters.

A long, dark hallway stretches ominously beyond, its end obscured by shadow. Dean’s right hand searches the wall for a light switch, and then there’s a flickering up above as fluorescent strip lights in the ceiling spring to life. There’s nothing there.

It comes as a relief as Dean begins the journey down the corridor, seeing nothing but blue linoleum flooring and off-white plaster walls. There are no windows, but he supposes it would ruin the illusion from the outside if anyone were to look in and see nothing but dull, corporate rooms. Turning a corner takes him past the foot of a stairwell and a couple of vending machines, one of them appearing completely dead while a light flickers intermittently in the other. His eyes land on the handful of chip bags and candy bars left behind, and his stomach growls.

It's futile, but Dean crosses to the flickering machine and raps on the glass. It does nothing to displace the snacks remaining in their holders, but a glance at the display over the coin slot shows a broken message that he thinks is attempting to say “Out of order”.

Dean takes a pace back, eyeing up which of the machines looks sturdier, and then gives the dead one a kick. He does it properly, landing the blow at waist height and pushing with his heel, but only gets a shock shooting up from his ankle as the glass resolutely refuses to break. An incoherent cry of frustration leaves his lips.

Had he more strength, he supposes he’d be able to manage it with a running kick, but the way he’s feeling right now he doesn’t rate his chances. Dammit, he needs to eat.

For a moment he begins to pace, wondering if he should leave it and keep moving, when his gaze turns further down the corridor and lands, blessedly, on his answer. There are a pair of double doors marked as a fire exit, and on the wall beside them: a fire extinguisher. It’s the best luck Dean’s had since he got here.

It’s funny how such a small run of fortune can make him feel better as he goes to retrieve it and bring it back to the vending machines. He’s feeling confident now as he positions himself in front of the glass, feet apart in a fighting stance and staring momentarily towards his own reflection. Dean grips the extinguisher with both hands, hefts it to shoulder height, and swings.

The extinguisher collides squarely with the center of the glass, rattling the entire machine as the screen shatters and confections and snacks tumble to the floor. Dean finds he can’t give a shit what state the food is in as he goes straight for an ancient bag of Cheetos, tearing into it and shovelling a handful into his mouth. They taste stale and dry on his tongue, but so damn welcome as he swallows them down. There’s a chance he’ll be regretting this later, but for now his stomach seems to thank him.

 _Now_ that he’s finally got his hands on the food, the blinking of green text on the display above the coin slot catches his eye.

_I saw that._

Briefly, he’s left wondering again if she omnisciently sees and hears everything that’s happening in the park, but then he spies the CCTV camera in the corner oriented towards the vending machines. “Yeah?” He raises a hand and flips it off.

He doesn’t care to read a retort as he wolfs down more of the food, getting through a further bag of Doritos and two Hershey’s bars before he finally feels some strength returning. It’s hardly a feast, but it’s enough to make him feel more grounded as he shoves several candy bars into his pockets. Sam’s going to need plenty of sugar when Dean finds him.

He’s about to move on again when, from somewhere in the distance, a sound reaches his ears. It’s just once, yet it’s enough to make Dean’s blood run cold.

_Clang._

He can’t guess what it is. It’s hard to even tell where it came from with the building shaped the way it is, but one thing it means for certain: there’s something else here.

More cautious now, Dean continues on in search of the lockers. He passes the double doors, leading into a second stretch of hallway that needs the lights flicking on before he continues past a couple of bathrooms and some offices. His heart’s pounding again as he keeps going, until taking a second corner brings him finally to a stretch of hallway with lockers lined up against the wall. He walks down the row, counting the numbers until he reaches 27 and feels his stomach flip over. The metal has been warped around the lock, a solid dent caused by blunt force that leaves the door protruding slightly from its frame. _Something_ wanted to make sure he could open the locker.

His mouth has gone dry again as he moves apprehensively forward, reaching out to pull the locker open. At first glance, the contents seem innocuous enough. There’s a jacket hanging on the back of the locker door; inside, a can of Axe, an old pair of sneakers, and towards the back, the pill bottle that Dean is after. He reaches out to take hold of it, disappointed by the weight as only a few seem to be left in the bottom. There’s a half-drunk water bottle he reaches for after he shakes a couple of pills into his palm, but a sniff of the contents makes him think better of it. He dry swallows a couple and pockets the rest, and is about to turn away again when the jacket on the back of the door catches his eye.

It seems oddly familiar: khaki canvas, brown collar, just like the one… Wait.

Dean’s hands fly to the jacket, pulling it off the hook as he inspects the plaid lining. There’s the familiar repair where werewolf claws had torn into it, the faint remnant of a bloodstain on the collar that just won’t budge…

It’s Sam’s jacket.

A soft noise keens in the back of Dean’s throat as his fists clutch tighter at the fabric. _Why is it here? Why did they leave Sam’s jacket for me to find?_

He doesn’t know, and he probably cares less than he should.

Swiftly, Dean empties his pockets, shedding his own damp, torn jacket and instead pulling on Sam’s. He can’t quite explain why, but it makes him feel better. It’s dry, slightly too big, and smells like his brother.

More pocket space, too. Dean loads up the candy bars and pills again, feeling strangely invigorated as he prepares to keep moving. “Well, I’m glad finding that made you feel better,” he hears Sam’s voice say in his head. “It will be nice to get it back. But you’re missing the point, Dean.”

“What?” Dean asks, and he isn’t even sure if he thinks it or says it aloud.

“The security cameras are still working.”

 _Shit._ Only now is it dawning him.

“If you find the control room and get a hold of the footage from earlier, you can see where they’ve taken me.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Dean berates himself as he closes the locker door again and sees Sam’s face on the other side.

“You did, Dean,” his brother reminds him. “I’m not really here.”

Dean feels the reality of that all too keenly.


	11. Closed Circuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your heart can betray you. Trust only your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor amendments to the previous chapter for continuity and what time of day it is.

_Camera room._

The new objective is clear in Dean’s head as he makes his way up the next stairwell, preparing to check out the upper floors. The first had returned nothing, but he’s certain the security office must be in this building as he continues to look. Finding Sam depends on it now. It’s the only chance he has to find his brother in time when searching the park manually could take days.

He arrives on the next landing and pushes open the double doors leading into the hallway. There are several offices on either side, mostly locked when he tries them and with frosted glass panes in the doorway. The only one he manages to get into is a box room filled with filing cabinets, and quickly realises it’s not the room he’s looking for. Dean has a feeling that the security office is going to be more…well, secure.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he takes a turn to begin exploring the next one. He only gets two rooms down when he spies the door with a keypad fixed to the wall beside it. That looks promising. The only question is going to be whether the electronic locking system is turned on…

Arriving at the door, a quick push against it tells him that it is, and Dean silently curses. Now he’s sure this is the room. If the cameras are indeed working and the security office is locked…then it can only mean this is going to lead him to Sam. And of course she’s going to want to keep him from getting inside.

The gears in his mind turning, Dean bends down to study the keypad. He’s pretty sure he could unscrew the cover and trip the circuits if he found the right equipment from somewhere, but it’s possible he might not need to. Most of the numbers are still clearly marked on the buttons, but three have almost completely rubbed off: 1, 3, and 9.

“Four digit passcode,” Sam’s voice says in his head. “That’s a year. And unless somebody’s commemorating the start of World War II, I’m guessing some security guy had a kid born in 1993.”

It’s the weakest passcode Dean can think of, yet it’s worth a shot. He keys in the number, almost wanting to whoop when he hears the door give a click. That was almost too easy.

Yeah… _too_ easy. Maybe he should be concerned.

He’s careful as he pushes the door open to peer into the dark room beyond, hands searching for a light switch like he has been with every new hallway. It surprises him when flicking it does nothing, the room remaining cloaked in shadow. Either the lights have blown, or perhaps the security office is on a separate circuit.

He leaves the door propped open to allow some light in, able to make out the shape of another computer situated at a desk, a few stacked television monitors, and several shelves of boxes containing VHS tapes. The camera feeds have to have ended up here, even if nothing’s currently turned on.

There’s a server tower stood next to the rows of stacked TVs, on top of it a box with various switches and a tangle of leads plugged into more ports than Dean cares to count. The tiny blinking lights of some sort of indicator tell him that the power outlets must at least be working, even if the main lights aren’t. He starts by turning on the monitors, most of them flickering to life although he’s met with “No Signal” errors on half of them and static on the rest. He swears under his breath as he realises this is going to be more difficult than he thought.

The static gives him some extra light to work by as he crosses to the box, noticing half the leads are unplugged. He squints more closely at one of the port clusters, noting the label “Camera 6”. The input lead is connected, but the output is empty. He’s going to have to connect the TVs.

It’s an infuriating task to untangle all the cables and get them into the right jacks, but within a few minutes he’s got a feed displaying on one of the screens. It isn’t a location he recognises, but the label by the timestamp identifies it as “Pirate Cove”, wherever that it. He needs a…

As soon as he thinks it, he sees the map mounted on the wall beside the server. “Oh, yeah. Good.” He moves in closer and squints, trying to make out the labels in the dim light. The general shape is familiar from earlier, but there have been stickers added detailing the specific camera number at each location. There’s a lot. Dean glances over at the tangle of wires and feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to have to reconnect them all.

It looks like the camera closest to the spot where Sam was taken is number three, and Dean tries plugging in that one first. One camera from each of the main areas seems like a good idea, and he pulls over the lead from

Pain suddenly shoots through Dean’s chest. He gasps, dropping the cable as a hand flies up to clutch at his ribs. There’s something sharp stabbing behind him sternum, his breathing laboured, stomach churning in panic…

_What if the pills didn’t work? What if there’s already too much damage…?_

The memory of his heartbeat grating like a broken gearbox is clear in his head. He thinks he can feel it beneath his hand, a tremor with each hard thump that knocks at his palm, and he wonders what she’s done to him.

_No, this can’t be happening. Not now._

It lasts only a few seconds, the pain swiftly fading to leave him shaking and gasping for breath, but the fear it brought lingers sour in the pit of his stomach. If he has a heart attack now, Sam is screwed. Dean takes out the pill bottle and swallows another one down.

He tries to get a grip on himself as he returns to plugging in the cameras, stopping when he has eight live feeds showing up on the monitors. All of them show nothing, the park as empty and abandoned as it had once appeared. There aren’t even any of the clowns: patrolling, lurking, or otherwise. He needs to replay the past few hours.

Frustration is beginning to take hold as Dean searches the box for some kind of rewind or pause button, but it’s becoming clear this isn’t supposed to be the main interface. He finds a chunky cable running from the back into one of the computer towers on the desk, and decides there’s nothing to lose for hitting the power button. The computer monitor flickers, sluggishly running through the BIOS screen, and then begins booting Windows 98.

Dean grits his teeth at how long it’s taking, seating himself in the office chair at the desk. Trying to roll it closer causes him to accidentally kick a box by his feet, and out of curiosity, he looks down. There’s a box filled with ring binders, and the one with its spine showing closest to him catches his eye. “ _Incident Report._ ”

He reaches down to lift it onto the desk, eyebrows drawing together as he starts to view the contents. It’s from June 2nd 2001.

_“…At 14:50 an undetermined fault with the safety restraints led to thirteen passengers being thrown from the ride, resulting in four fatalities and a further nine casualties…”_

From memory, the second accident had been due to a fault in the track. It’s not obvious how they’d be related, unless… _there was already something in this park that wants to kill people,_ Dean thinks drily.

“… _We have found no reason to conclude that the daily safety checks on the ride were neglected or performed inadequately,”_ he continues to read. “ _This unfortunate incident appears to be the result of a spontaneous malfunction…”_

There are pictures accompanying the report, and Dean grimaces at the grainy forensic photos of mangled bodies and smashed skulls. He’s happy to look away again as he notices the computer has taken him to a login screen. It’s asking for a password.

 _Dammit, I do not have time for this,_ he thinks, wondering if he should just abandon this idea, but he chances clicking on the password hint.

 _“Hello again, Dean,”_ it says, making his heart give a thump. “ _How’s your heart doing?”_

So she’s back. The honest answer to that question is, “Not good”, yet he has a feeling that’s not what she’s after. He takes his pulse again, then types in “86”.

It works. The desktop begins to load, a plain blue background ( _“It’s green,_ ” he can practically hear Sam arguing) populated with low-resolution icons popping into existence across the screen. Dean’s both relieved and perturbed as he watches the screen settle, its refresh rate causing it to flicker a few times before it steadies, leaving behind just a cluster of dead pixels in one corner. His eyes scan for a shortcut marked “Cameras” or “Security” or something similar, but several others catch his eye.

Curious, his first click is on a pixelated icon of a clown head labelled “Mechanoid Circus”. It opens to a text file in old-fashioned, clunky formatting.

“ _Proposed Project: Mechanoid Circus_  
_Budget: $13 million_  
_Outline of proposal: An addition to Family Funland, the Mechanoid Circus would be a fully automated circus show featuring mechanical performers. While development of the initial technology may be costly, in the long run it is forecast to be cheaper than projected costs for long-term contracting of human performers. The mechanical aspect will also add novelty value and a unique selling point to…”_

Dean skips further down the page.

_“Project status: Abandoned.  
Notes: Financially untenable. It is proposed that the existing expenditure on technological development be mitigated by repurposing the automated models for use in the Fun House, Pirate Cove, and Haunted Halls attractions.”_

So. He guesses that explains how the clown things got here, yet it gives no answer as to what sinister entity they’re serving.

He closes the window and scans the desktop further, bringing the cursor to hover over an icon labelled “Haunted Halls Press Release”. He can’t tell what the icon image is supposed to depict, but if pressed, he’d say it kinda reminds him of the medallion from _Pirates of the Caribbean._ Were it not for the flyer he’d seen earlier, he’d still be tempted to skip over it, yet now there are alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind.

“ _A true terror experience featuring real haunted artefacts…”_

What if, for once, the supposedly “haunted” tourist grab actually was actually haunted?

He clicks the file.  

It takes him to another badly formatted document with the text of a press release and a few images awkwardly intercut between the lines.

“ _April 12 th 2001  
Warlock Entertainment is proud to announce the launch its new attraction, “Haunted Halls,” opening next week at Wanda’s Wonderland. Adding a unique twist on the classic Haunted House, this attraction promises to provide a true terror experience for lovers of the horror genre, as well as having educational value for those with a keen interest in history. The Warlock Entertainment Group has recently purchased twelve artefacts from the Wheatley Memorial Museum’s “Hauntings Through History” exhibit which now form an integral part of the attraction. Park guests will be able to take a terrifying adventure through Medieval Europe, Victorian London, and the Aztec Empire, among others, and see first hand objects which are said to still be haunted by spirits from these times. Among the artefacts forming part of the immersive environment of _“ _Haunted Halls” are canopic jars containing the organs of Hatshepsut, princess of Egypt’s thirteenth dynasty; an apron and surgical tools said to be used by Jack the Ripper; and a tablet and sacrificial knife owned by insane Aztec High Priestess Yolotli…”_

The image accompanying that finally clues him in as to what the desktop icon is supposed to depict: it’s a round tablet, a stylised heart in the center and Aztec engravings in rings around the edge.

A light suddenly flicks on in his head. He can write off the Jack the Ripper crap, but the canopic jars and the tablet have traction. It’s all about the heart, he realises. His heart; the heart of her victim before him; the hearts of the unfortunate people riding The Flatliner in ‘01 or ‘03…

Dean keeps reading, eyes moving faster as he looks for any fresh information that can help him figure this out. The final line on the page draws a raised eyebrow.

_“Full disclosure: The Wheatley Memorial Museum was closed in 1999 following a freak accident at its automotive exhibition.”_

Well, _something_ here is definitely haunted. It may be just a spirit, but it seems to have control of the entire park. But, it _is just_ a spirit. And that means he can kill it.

Dean clicks out of the window, finally glad to have something solid to grasp onto. He just has to find Sam, then salt and burn whatever crap is in that haunted house causing this.

His attention turns to the desktop icon of a lightning bolt labelled “Park Systems” and clicks on it, hoping something in there will take him to the camera feeds. It brings up an application displaying an interactive plan of the park, tabs running down the side identifying each system. _Power…ticketing…cameras_ … He switches to the latter one and selects camera three from the map.

And then wants to put his fist through the screen as the only options it gives him are _refresh, pause,_ or _backup._

All he needs is to get hold of yesterday’s footage, but as he turns to stare back at the TVs in frustration, he notices the post-it note stuck to the side of the computer monitor. It’s situated just above a row of three buttons, the first of which is currently pressed in.

There are three lines scrawled across it:

 _Channel 1: PC_  
_Channel 2: Cameras_  
_Channel 3: VCR_

Maybe he just needs to select the right one…

Dean reaches up to push down the button for channel two. The screen goes black and his heart suddenly lurches.

The light streaming in from the hallway behind him makes his reflection stand out stark in the glass. Over his shoulder, he can see a humanoid figure standing in the doorway, watching. It isn’t a clown, but rather all metal, hydraulic limbs shining faintly as the wicked curve of its bladed right hand reflects the light. Its eyes are pinpricks of glowing white.

Beta blockers or not, Dean’s heart is pounding again.

He’s about to turn to better face it, maybe run, maybe try to arm himself, when a familiar white cursor blinks to life on the screen. It sweeps out two words.

_Don’t move._


	12. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to see what's under yours.

Dean’s breath comes short and fast as he suddenly goes still.

 _He’s without his skin,_ the next line says.

_If he sees yours, he’ll want to take it for himself._

A chill rakes down Dean’s spine. He resists the urge to turn and view the creature straight on, his head directed forward, hands curled onto the desk. Sam’s jacket feels like a protective cloak as he waits it out, not daring even a slight turn of his head and risking giving the creature a glimpse of his face. _So…it won’t attack unless it sees skin?_

He waits for the next line: an instruction, a taunt…but there’s nothing.

The creature’s details are obscured by the dullness of the reflection, but Dean can see enough that his heart is thumping hard with fear. It’s a bare skeleton; the clown beneath the mask. He never thought he’d rather see one of those pale, grotesquely painted faces, but it’s better than something that wants to rip off his.

Dean waits. Counts. 100 heartbeats. 200. It’s too fast to allow him to count seconds, the rhythm dominating everything in his head. Then, after 360 heartbeats, the creature turns and begins to walk away down the corridor again.

Dean lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He gives it another few seconds before he dares get up, crossing to the door and tentatively inching his head outside. He can hear nothing; the monster vanishing as silently as it had appeared. Only when he sees the corridor is empty in both directions does he step back into the room and closes the door. There’s there soft click of the electronic lock securing and then he’s plunged into darkness. He doubts mechanical fingers and a bladed hand will do well with the keypad.

Breath blows heavy past Dean’s lips as he turns to face the room again. Only the green-tinged camera feeds provide light now, his eyes flitting over the computer screen. Her words have vanished, instead replaced with a clunky interface of text menus, “Camera 1” currently highlighted in green. Willing his heart to slow down, Dean crosses back to it.

The mouse isn’t connected, but the keyboard seems to work as he tabs through to camera three, relieved when selecting it gives him the option to rewind. _When did we get here? 3pm yesterday…?_ That seems to be about right as he skips back, holding down the left arrow and watching the feed on the monitors crackle with noise as it rushes in reverse. For the most part, nothing changes, the screen showing a static image of one of the pathways near the entrance, until suddenly Dean sees movement.

His finger flies off the key, watching at regular speed as he sees himself appear in front of the camera and then walk by off screen again, oblivious. It’s a slightly surreal feeling. He recognises the area, unfamiliar from this angle, and guesses the part with the first clown mannequin must be in a blind spot round the corner. He skips back further, watching the time stamp reverse until he sees it again: there.

His heart skips as the clown comes into view, dragging on the floor behind it a familiar figure. Sam is unconscious, ankle gripped tightly in the clown’s non-weapon hand, mane of hair tangling as it gathers dirt from the ground. The resolution isn’t good enough for him to see in any detail, but Dean’s fists clench. The sight of his little brother being dragged like a ragdoll makes something wrench horribly inside him. He notes the difference in time stamps: two hours between Sam being taken and Dean waking up to find him gone. Enough time that they could have taken him anywhere.

The clown and Sam vanish off screen again, another automaton following soon after. Dean glances over at the map. There are about half a dozen pathways beyond that point they could have taken before he sees a camera sticker again.

His frustration is quickly climbing. Dean tabs back to the menu and finds the “All Cameras” option, running back every feed at 16x speed. His eyes scan the monitors, looking for any changes to the generally static images. There are a few false starts when he stops only to see himself walk across screen again, or sees the clowns, patrolling, but without any Sam. He ramps the speed up higher. It takes him through all of last night until the cameras switch back out of night vision and finally he spots something that might help. Movement flickers in the bottom left hand monitor.

It’s the boarding platform to one of the rollercoasters. At the far end from the camera, Dean can see two clowns carrying a body between them: one with its back to him, but angled such that he can make out a pair of legs. It makes Dean’s stomach squirm to see how lifeless it looks.

The label next to the time stamp reads, “The Flatliner”.

Dean swallows. Is that where Sam’s been this whole time? It makes sense, he supposes. The rollercoaster that stopped so many hearts, and now she’s toying with his.

At least now he knows where to go. A glance at the map to gauge distance, and Dean’s heart sinks. “Thrillseeker Heights” is aptly named. There’s an altitude scale placing it a good 500 feet above sea level, sharply climbing with no ground access from the east. A naturally occurring lake sits in the valley, while in the west, an arrow marks the trail through the water rides and trees leading up to the high ground. From his current location, access would be via the cable car line running from the boating lake directly up to the hilltop, but it’s not like that’s going to be running.

Dean swears under his breath. The pedestrian route is three times as far, and he knows that taking that hike on foot is going to push his heart rate up into the hundreds. If he’d just headed west to begin with…

A thought suddenly occurs to him. Dean presses the button on the side of the monitor again, taking him back to the “Park Systems” program running on the desktop. He switches from “Cameras” to “Power” and studies the regions marked on the map.

 _ADVENTURE PLAZA_  
Generator: OFFLINE  
Power: **OFFLINE**

 _THE CARNIVAL_  
Primary Generator: OFFLINE  
Auxiliary: RUNNING  
Power: **ON**

 _CABLE TRANSPORT SYSTEM_  
Generator: RUNNING  
Power: **RESET BREAKERS**

Dammit. But if the generator’s still running, there’s a chance he can get it to work. All the park’s power supply appears to be self-contained, and he just has to get the system online again. “Looks like I’m resetting the breakers, and the raptor compound’s breached,” Dean mutters to himself.

Doubt still lingers at the back of his mind. The camera footage goes all the way back to last night. It’s the most recent of anything he was able to find, but there’s still at least a dozen other cameras he hasn’t checked. What if they moved Sam…?

He tells himself it’s unlikely. There’s no good to come of plugging in all the other feeds now. He’s wasted too much time already.

Anxiety turns his stomach as he heads back over to the door. A sweat slick palm closes on the handle, dreading that at any moment he'll hear the clang of metal or feel something trying to wrench the door open from the other side. It never comes. He cracks the door open again and inches his head out. As far as he can see, the corridor is empty, but it's not enough to unwind his nerves just yet. His ears strain for any sound of danger, but if there's anything to be heard, it's drowned out by the pounding of his blood. Dean takes a breath and steps out back into the hallway.

He doesn’t look back to see the display on the camera feeds refreshing, or the darkened figure that appears on the screen marked “Offices 4”.

By the time he reaches the ground floor, adrenaline is pushing his heart rate into triple figures again. _“You’re killing your brother,”_ a voice keeps saying in the back of his head, “ _You’ve got to calm down,_ ” but it isn’t helping as each backward glance and rounded corner brings with it new fear. He’s aiming for the fire escape down by the lockers, which he thinks will take him directly in the direction of the lake, but as he rounds the corner by the vending machines his heart leaps into his mouth.

At the far end of the corridor, where one hallway meets the next, the flickering lights cast a shadow on the wall. Even at this distance, Dean can’t mistake the shape of a blade in place of a right hand. And it appears to be getting bigger.

There’s a moment’s hesitation as he decides whether to run. Even now that still galls him, that he’s fleeing from danger instead of facing it down, but with no weapons and his brother’s life on the line, it’s not like there’s any other choice. Dean begins to backtrack, heading in the same direction he came, but it’s taking him deeper into the complex and further from any known exit.

He’s starting to worry that he’s going to get stuck here, the presence of No Face both trapping him and keeping him on edge enough that Sam right now is surely bleeding out, but it turns out that it’s the last of his worries. The next turn of a corner brings him face to face with the leering grin of a clown and the end of the hammer in place of its hand.

Dean cries out, the swing of its weapon missing him by inches as he ducks in time to scramble back. He sees the hole it knocks in the wall as plaster goes flying.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_ runs relentlessly through his mind, heart racing in panic as he bolts in the opposite direction.

There’s one corridor, no exits, monsters at both ends, and now he’s fucked. Unless…

No Face hasn’t quite rounded the corner just yet. Dean can see the shadow enlarging, the metal foot extending into the hallway and then landing with a clack, and he knows it’s now or never. He’s either going to die the last way he ever wanted: cowering, not looking his killer in the face; or he’s not going to die at all. He figures it’s worth the risk.

Just as No Face rounds the corner, Dean pulls Sam’s jacket up over his head. He throws himself in a ball to the floor, tucking his knees up under him as his heart pounds in his chest. For a few horrifying moments he wonders if didn’t work. Footsteps draw closer, heavy, clattering, and at any moment he expects to feel the force of a hammer through his spine…

Then the ring of metal striking metal hits his ears. Something grates harsh and metallic along Dean’s eardrums, and then he feels a shockwave rumble through the floor. He dares to look up again.

No Face has its back turned to Dean and is gripping the smaller clown tightly round the throat, impervious to its hammer blows as it raises its blade. Dean watches, transfixed, as it hooks the curve beneath the clown’s chin and begins to carve.

The plastic peels away, some of it shedding smooth until the shape clings more tightly to the skeleton and No Face begins to hack. It keeps going, mangling what was left of the painted on smile and weeping eyes. It wants the clown’s skin.

A spark shoots in the clown’s eyes as wires in its head sever, hammer strike protests falling still. There’s barely anything left as Dean can’t stop his imagination painting his own face onto the mangled wreck, adding blood and tissue where only crumpled plastic remains.

Dean’s already been staring for too long. He turns and bolts for the exit.


	13. On A Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're walking the fine line between life and death.

There’s a welcome relief that comes with the feeling of fresh air on his skin. Dean’s heart pounds as he runs, but he doesn’t stop until he’s put a good distance between himself and the monster back there. He slows to a walk again, gulping down air as he tries to recover. His breaths come heavy and painful, but he’s glad to still be drawing them at all. A hand flattens over his chest and he winces at the tenderness, bruised ribs protesting his touch. His heart’s still racing, but he thinks the beta blockers have helped. He spent a good hour in the office block where he’s sure his heart rate was comfortably in the sixties. Sammy must be okay, then…right?

The thumping at his chest reminds him that that’s probably not the case, and he suddenly hates himself for running so fast. It’s not like there were any good options available.

He focuses on trying to calm down as he continues on a steady walk down towards the boating lake, although adrenaline still pumps with each nervous beat of his heart. He hates how he’s exposed in the open like this, but he hopes that at least means he’ll be able to see any danger coming early. Not that it does anything to help him defeat it.

Thoughts of her previous victim manage to creep into his mind as he walks. He almost feels like he knows the kid, remembers his face from the missing person reports: sandy hair, blue eyes below a slightly too-large forehead, pale, acne-plagued skin. Just a typical teenager. All he’d wanted was to explore an abandoned theme park for kicks with a couple of friends. An uncomfortable feeling turns Dean’s stomach now that he knows what happened.

The two friends who bailed got lucky. Then the body of a third one turns up drained of blood and dumped in a field, and the final one… Well, the final one must still be here somewhere. Dean’s blood suddenly runs cold.

How long had the kid played the game before losing, Dean wonders? How long has _he_ been playing it now? It must be over twelve hours, at least. Long enough that Sam must be hovering dangerously close to death’s door, and Dean himself is just a bundle of pain and injuries struggling to keep going.

Next time Sam says it’s not vamps, Dean thinks he’ll listen.

He makes it the rest of the way without running into trouble. The cable car station, it turns out, is sat just on the shore of the lake. A thick layer of mist hangs over the water, making it difficult to see far up the hillside, but The Flatliner still stands out in its dominant position high above the park. That’s where Dean’s headed.

“So, you thinking Egyptian or Aztec?” Sam decides to ask as Dean makes his way up the wooden ramp to the station entrance.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t, but at some point he’s going to have to make sense of everything he found on the computer if he wants to win. He’s getting Sam back, and then he’s going to kill her. One way or another.

“We’ve dealt with Egyptian gods before,” his brother’s voice says, and Dean can half imagine a comforting presence at his side to go with it. “The Egyptians believed the heart would be weighed on a scale after death. I guess she seems to be weighing up yours.”

“Is that what you’d call it?” He doesn’t look sideways for fear of crushing the illusion. “I’m not dead, yet.”

“Or there’s the Aztecs. They sacrificed a lot of hearts. Sacrificed a lot of people by flaying, too.”

“I guess that suits Buffalo Bill back there.”

When Dean gets to the entrance he’s forced to turn, realising Sam was never there after all. He’d known it from the start, yet he still feels an irrational disappointment and loneliness at knowing he’s on his own.

He pushes open the door and heads along the ramp that continues inside up to the boarding platform. A rope barrier runs down the middle, no longer needed to organise a line when no parkgoer has stepped foot in here in years. Dean’s eyes dart about, scanning for danger, but he’s keeping an eye out for a fuse box or something marked with a high voltage warning.

He soon spies it up near the control room that overlooks the platform: a green metal box labelled with a black lightning bolt inside yellow triangle. He hurriedly crosses to it, ignoring the “Authorized Personnel Only” signs as he reaches the roped-off area and pulls the box open. It’s exactly what he was hoping for.

The breaker board is simple, managing only the systems running the cable car line. An array of switches in the “off” position with printed labels indicate the status of various circuits. _Docking… barriers… doors… motors… intercom…_ The red light at the top of the board tells him the system is currently offline, and he goes through one by one pushing the circuits back into standby. This isn’t so hard. Now he just needs to prime the system…

Dean reaches for the yellow lever on the right of the box, pumping it three times to charge. The offline light switches to yellow. “Okay, good…” He mumbles to himself, encouraged that so far, everything’s gone according to plan. He makes a final glance over his shoulder, fearful that maybe he’s going to see a clown standing right behind watching, but he’s still on his own. One final lever to go.

Dean grips firmly onto the handle. It’s bigger than the others, situated on a black and yellow striped metal plate in case somebody might otherwise miss it, and he can grasp it comfortably with the full span of his hand. He lifts it out of its “off” position and pushes up.

Pain suddenly shoots along Dean’s arm. He hears the crackling before he sees the spark, something flashing bright white in the fuse box as heat sears across his palm. It happens so fast there’s no chance for him to cry out. The pain stabs instantly up to his shoulder, radiating out to his jaw as electricity arcs through his chest and down his legs to the floor. He’s knocked back by the force of it, landing hard on his back as the grinding of gears and traction cables rumble to life around him. Whichever circuit blew, it wasn’t the motors. Not that Dean’s lucid enough to tell.

His head spins, ears ringing as he gasps for air. His nerve endings are on fire. His chest feels tight, his heart fluttering, queasy…

“ _Oh, well done, Dean! You got the power back on.”_ A taunt blares over the revived intercom. The voice sounds distant, echoing in his ears. “ _But it sounds like your heart took a nasty shock. You need to get it under control before you and Sammy here both pay the price.”_

Dean would be snarking back, were he not on the floor gasping for breath.

“ _Is that an AED in the control room? If only you could get to it. I’d send one of my pets to help you, but you had him killed by my poor, confused boy without his skin. Actions have consequences, Dean.”_

He’s mentally telling her to go fuck herself, but physically he doesn’t have the energy to expend on speech. _Arrhythmia._ He doesn’t know what kind, but within minutes it’s going to be fatal. If he can just reach that defibrillator…

He manages an undignified half-crawl, half-roll in the direction of the control room. An uncomfortable rush of heat rises in his chest, limbs shaking as he somehow makes it to the already-cracked open door. His palm stings where he pushes it open, the skin seared by the shock.

_Where…where is it…?_

It’s an effort to even think straight, vision blurring and occasionally blacking out as he looks for the device. Eventually he sees it up on the wall, a white box with the red icon of a heart cut through with a white lightning bolt. The irony isn’t lost on him as he wonders how to reach it. He can barely crawl, let alone stand.

“Dean, you can do this.” While the rest of the world swims in and out of focus, Sam’s voice is as clear as if he were right beside him. Dean knows he’s right. This is the only way he can save Sam. And save himself.

He clutches at one of the chairs by the console as he strains to pull himself upright, his chest knotted tight as each breath brings a fresh stab of pain. His balance fails and he falls towards the wall, but his hands find the box and clumsily get it open. The device comes with him as he collapses to the floor again.

There’s a loud clatter as it hits the ground, and for a moment, Dean fears that he broke it. There’s no time to give that any consideration as he fumbles with the chest pads, feeling his heart flutter as he desperately tries to get them to stick to his chest. He can only hope they’re positioned right as he finally goes limp. Dean waits, tries to gulp down a breath, and then remembers he has to turn the damn thing on.

He rolls onto his side again, hands searching for the box with no finesse or precision as he jabs a thumb weakly as the power button. He misses several times, vision swimming, before finally he feels something click beneath his touch. A beep hits his ears.

Dean gasps heavily as he collapses into a trembling mess, eyelids threatening to slip closed.

The pre-recorded voice on the box speaks in an obscenely calm monotone. “ _Assessing heart rhythm.”_

It’s a deep, lifeless, robotic voice, yet infinitely more welcome than the cold taunts he’s been hearing for the past several hours. Dean waits, feeling himself grow weaker as time stretches out far too long and he wonders how long he can survive. Sam’s face swims above him, stained with blood. He needs his brother.

“ _Shock advised,”_ the AED finally declares. “ _Administering shock.”_

Dean can’t brace himself, nor would it help. For the second time in five minutes, his chest convulses as a surge of electrical current rushes through it. His heart flutters, stops, then slams back to life again with full force.

Dean gasps. He feels the rhythm inside him: strong, regular once again as a hand flies to press over his sternum. Coughs wrack his chest, jolts of pain accompanying each one, but he keeps his palm clutched tight to his heart. He feels it knock hard against his sore ribs, and there’s never been pain he’s been more grateful to feel.

Another minute passes as Dean catches his breath. The AED declares his heart’s in a regular rhythm again before Dean rips the chest pads off and gets shakily to his feet. His knees are weak, and for a moment or two he needs to lean on the console for support. No further remarks come over the intercom, and he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. In any case, he needs to keep moving.

The gears dragging the industrial cable mounted overhead are running, though Dean has yet to see a car appear in the dock. He peers out along the cable line through the glass screen fronting the control room, but the mist over the lake prevents him from seeing far. There must be two cars on the line, at least. He can’t have that long to wait.

Still unsteady on his feet, Dean exits the control room to make the short walk down to the platform again. There’s a second platform opposite for alighting passengers, and judging from the direction the cable is running, cars returning from the lake will arrive there first. He takes the steps back down to docking level, rounds the corner onto the platform…

…and finds himself face-to-face with a head of warped sheets of metal and pinprick white lights for eyes.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. The two simply stare at each other, taking it in, and then Dean stumbles back in fear. There’s nowhere to hide. No Face has seen him now.

The monster lunges for him as he tries to run. He leaps back from the platform, barely avoiding the swipe of its long blade as he finds himself back on the entrance ramp, and then reconsiders. If he runs back the way he came now, then it was all for nothing. But if he can make it to the other platform, he can still catch a car and get away.

The mechanoid is larger than he is. Heavier. He can tell already that its own weapon unbalances it, leaving it to right itself after its heavy swing. Dean can outrun it. He bolts a few yards down the platform, away from the control room and towards the turning arc at the far end. A narrow walkway runs just below platform level to connect both sides and he jumps down onto it, running the first couple of steps and then trying to leap the remaining distance.

He’s too slow. Too weak. Too unlucky.

A hand fists in the back of his jacket. It wrenches down to slam him hard onto the metal walkway, knocking the air from his lungs as pain splinters through his chest. If his ribs hadn’t been cracked before, they sure are now. No Face flips him over roughly, Dean lashing out in desperation, but even at full strength he knows he wouldn’t be strong enough to escape.

A metal hand pins his right shoulder and he feels the curve of the blade come to rest against his neck. His hands scrabble to push the arm away, but it does him no good. Devoid of a face, there’s no expression in the mechanoid’s glowing eyes. Dean thinks his heart might just straight up give out.

The blade starts to sink in, its curve drawing the sharpened edge down lower onto Dean’s collarbone. He feels it cut deep, pain searing white hot as it effortlessly slices through his skin, and then its path begins to curve beneath the layers of tissue to lift flesh from bone.

Dean can’t help it. He screams.

All he can hope for is that the blade hits his jugular and he bleeds out before it reaches the worst of it. He’s faced that pain before in Hell. He can’t face it again.

Just as his vision blacks out from agony, waiting for chunks of his flesh to lift away, he hears the hard clang of metal colliding with metal. The weight pinning him suddenly lifts, and he gasps in relief as his vision swims back into focus. A car has at last arrived in the dock. It cleared the walkway just enough to knock the mechanoid off of him while leaving Dean untouched, and now Dean can see No Face scrabbling on the floor struggling to right itself again.

This is his chance. There’s no time to adjust to the pain. He has to move.

A surge of adrenaline seems to numb everything but his resolve as the car hits the turning arc and begins to move back up the opposite platform again. Dean clambers up and chases after it, leaping and clinging onto the side as he tries to kick the door open.

No Face is soon back in hot pursuit, swinging for him again just as Dean manages to get the door open and all but falls inside. The mechanoid staggers off balance, rights itself, and tries to rush for him again, but it’s too late. The car has left the station, climbing quickly, already meters above the lake.

Dean stumbles over to the window, staring back down at the creature watching him vanish into the distance. It’s impossible to read any expression of anger or contempt on the creature’s not-quite-face, but it’s enough for Dean to feel a rush of satisfaction as he watches it quickly become swallowed up by mist.

He turns away from the window again, collapsing into one of the seats as he reaches for the bottle of pills in his pocket. There’s only two left.

Dean dry swallows one, hoping it will be enough to help his heart find a steady rhythm again, and then reaches for one of the candy bars. Sam may need it later, but right now, Dean’s not going to get much further without some energy from somewhere.

Pain is starting to burn hot across his chest again as the effects of the adrenaline start to wear off. He clutches a hand to the cut and hisses in pain, wondering vaguely if his anti-possession tattoo survived. Right now, he doesn’t suppose it matters. His skin’s still all there, albeit a little more loosely attached, and he thinks he’ll take that.

It’s not a long ride. He guesses only five minutes have passed by the time he clears the lake and the mist thins so that he can see the trees covering the hillside beneath him, some of them tall enough that the leaves skim the underside of the car. Another five minutes to the top, he reckons. Isolated high above the rest of the park, this is the safest he’s felt since he got here.

Now that was a thought he should never have had.

It’s about eight minutes into the ride when Dean suddenly hears a loud _clang_ above him and the car briefly shakes. His heart leaps into his mouth.

_Did something just land on the roof or…?_

He has no guess as to _how,_ and the most he can see from the window is the shape of a car on the opposite line receding into the distance. It takes a split second to click when another familiar noise starts up again: something he’d last heard in the Fun House.

It’s the whirring of a buzz saw.

“No no no…” He says it outloud as he stands up, panic climbing as he has no idea what to do or how to stop it. "Cas, now would be a good time to start listening." The car shudders again.

_Fuck, it’s cutting through the cable line…_

The knowledge of what’s happening does nothing to help him find a solution. Fear sweeps over him, heartbeat at a gallop as the creature overhead makes quick work of the cable. The panic rushing through his head barely has time to coalesce into thoughts before Dean hears the sharp twang of snapping metal, and then both he and the car are plummeting into the treetops below.


	14. Interlude II

Sam wakes to the sound of screaming. It’s distant, slightly muffled, but the voice is disturbingly familiar. It cuts deep through the fuzziness in his head, making him inwardly flinch though his body is too leaden to respond. Distress tightens his chest, curls in his gut as his mind recoils. He knows that voice…

Suddenly it cuts off then begins again, the same screams replaying to his more lucid brain. His heart lurches as he realises it’s Dean.

The haze plaguing his mind starts to abate as he forces his consciousness to push past. Eyes flicker open to find themselves staring towards an array of TV screens. Only one shows movement as Sam squints, trying to discern what he’s seeing or where he is. There’s the shape of his brother on the floor, some creature on top of him, a blade at his throat…

“He’s quite the screamer, isn’t he?” a cold voice says behind him.

 _“What?”_ It’s what Sam tries to say. All he manages is a grunt.

“It’s such a shame, really,” she continues, replaying the video again so that Sam’s fists try to clench. “Your brother was doing so well, but I think he maybe saw just a little more than he should have on that computer. He shouldn’t have gone snooping. Now I have to cut our game short.” Something cold and hard – a hand? – runs through his hair, and he tries to twist away. Even when he gets past the lethargy dragging heavy on his limbs, he finds his wrists and ankles are bound down. A cramp-like pain twinges in his arms.

There comes a sigh sounding close to his ear, yet he feels no breath to accompany it. The touch on his head withdraws, and footsteps sound soft behind him before a figure emerges in his line of vision. It’s too dark for him to make out any detail, yet he’s certain she looks human and at the same time, _not._

“Get a good look at your brother,” she says. “This will be the last time you see him.”

The feed on the monitor suddenly changes, showing a cable car ascending up a foliage-covered hillside. Another screen flickers to life, apparently showing the interior as a blurry figure paces, panicked, and again Sam realises it's Dean. There’s just enough time for him to be puzzled before he sees the wire suspending the car snap, sending the second screen into a blur of distortion as the car plummets into the trees below. This time, there’s no sound.

He groans, fear churning in his gut as he wonders what happened to Dean. His head pounds in time with his heart, the pressure painful behind his eyes. The shadowy figure crosses back to him. Hands reach up to a space above his head where he can’t quite see, and he hears the faucet from earlier drip faster. It makes him nauseous.

“Don’t worry, Sam, I won’t rush. Unlike your brother, you can die nice and peaceful.”

He fights to hold onto consciousness as he feels the little strength he has draining again. Dean’s out there somewhere, hurt, and all Sam’s doing is lying here weak and useless…

His determination alone isn’t enough. Before the darkness takes him again, the last thing he thinks he sees is a figure on the screen dragging a body from the wreck of the car.


	15. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't wake up.

_Everything is dark. No matter where Dean looks all he sees is blackness, stretching out above, below, beyond him. If he brings his hand within an inch of his face still he can make out nothing, and wonders if he even has limbs at all. There’s no discernible texture or substance to the floor: it seems to only be made of black._

_“_ Dean!”

_In the distance – if distance even has meaning – a voice cries his name. He hears the fear, the desperation, and his heart begins to pound harder in a chest he isn’t sure he has._

_“Sammy?” He has a voice, then. Dean tries to move forward in the direction of his brother’s cries, but then he hears it again. The voice seems to come from somewhere else, at once all around him and not in the direction he was going._

_“_ Dean!” _It sounds more urgent, panicked._

_He tries to turn, feeling like he’s wading through mud as he fights to make it to Sam. His brother’s hurt, bleeding out. Dean has to find him…_

_Then the screaming starts._

_It makes Dean cry out in horror, hearing the agony in the echoes bouncing off of non-existent walls. “Sam! Sam, where are you?!” He can’t tell. Can’t see a thing._

_He turns, head spinning (and the world too, for all he knows) as he desperately searches. His legs – yes, he has them – stumble forward, moving fast yet going nowhere._

_He needs to find his brother. This is all down to him: find Sammy, get them both out of here, but his heart’s pounding too fast and Sam’s bleeding too quickly and–_

_The face appears from nowhere. Dean stumbles, tries to run through the dark, and suddenly it’s there._

_Some of it he sees: the matted dark hair that falls wild around its face; waxy olive skin painted with streaks of red; thin lips pulled back from sharpened teeth just inches from his face…_

_But all that he soon forgets. What lingers is the penetrating stare: gleeful violence in its dead, white eyes._

_Something cold plunges deep inside his chest, and Dean opens his mouth to scream._


	16. The Flatliner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

Dean’s eyes fly open. Cold sweat clings to his skin and his heart races in panic, still able to feel the searing pain in his chest. _Sammy… she’s taken Sam… I have to find him…_

As he realises it was only a nightmare, for a moment he thinks he can calm down and convince himself everything will be fine. Then he realises reality is even worse.

Panic surges through him, overwhelming as he stares along the blood red rollercoaster track up ahead. He’s suspended in the air, torso horizontal, staring down at a 300 foot drop. He has no idea how he got here, but the last thing he remembers is a blur of spinning shapes and crashes and pain as the cable car plummeted from the sky. As the mist thins to reveal the earth below, this time free of any trees to act as buffer, he knows it's not an experience he wants to repeat. The track extends as far as the ground, curves up slightly, and then there’s just empty space. An entire stretch of it is missing. Dean can see the point where it’s supposed to reconnect several meters away, yet without the track, the only place a rollercoaster car is going to go is the ground. 

There’s a safety restraint across his chest, preventing him from falling, yet it’s placing his entire weight on his cracked and bruised ribs. Everything hurts all the more after the tumble in the cable car, clusters of pain blurring together so that he's barely able to distinguish one injury from the next. There's fresh blood in his mouth; more trickling down the side of his head. His arms and neck and back and chest all burn. The agony makes him gasp for air and his feet scramble to brace themselves on the bottom of the car, just something to relieve the pressure. He can’t stop the mounting terror as he cranes his neck to look around, praying to see an escape, and his eyes land on the figure in the seat next to him.

Soiled clothes hang loose from a shrunken frame, pulled taut only over the bloat of rotting intestines. Mottled, waxy skin clings to the ridges of collarbones and knuckles Dean is able to see, yet the face is mostly covered in blood. He can smell the stench of it, flies crawling over the still-juicy pulp of mangled flesh and thick ropes of matted hair. The eyes are half-open, irises pale and cloudy, and Dean’s sure _that’s a maggot_ crawling in the eye socket closest to him. His stomach lurches. Despite the gore, enough of the face is left for Dean to recognise it. Not that he wouldn’t have been able to guess.

 _Jesus Christ, poor kid…_ He thinks as he fights down the bile building in his stomach. The unwelcome thought of _if I don’t save Sam, is that what’s going to happen to me?_ crosses his mind, and he thinks he’s just on the verge of being sick when he hears the crackling of a loudspeaker off to his right. He looks across, past the corpse of her earlier victim to where a speaker is mounted above a service platform at the side of the coaster.

“ _Hello again, Dean.”_

His blood runs cold. “Fuck you,” he snarls. “Fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU.” He rattles the restraint across his chest, desperation making him kick and struggle with everything he has. Even if he were to somehow break free, he knows the only thing he’ll do is fall.

She waits a few moments for him to exhaust himself and then slump down against the restraint again. “ _Rude,”_ she comments. “ _You’re on the most fantastic rollercoaster in the Midwest with an incredible view of the park. Don’t be so ungrateful.”_

Dean really doesn’t have a thought to spare for the view. “Yeah, I’m so fucking grateful you strapped me into a _killer coaster,_ ” he spits.

She tuts. “ _But_ _I thought this was where you were trying to get to? You wanted to come here, Dean."  
_

"Yeah, because Sam was supposed to be here! Where is he?"

She ignores that. " _You know, I've always loved this rollercoaster. Really got people’s hearts racing. Well…before it stopped them completely. I think you’re going to love it.”_

 _She’s fucking insane,_ Dean thinks. “Love it? I’m not going to get past the first 300 feet of it!”

“ _Oh, yeah. Shame about that piece of track. They never did get round to replacing it after the accident. Well, I say 'accident'...”_

Dean starts to struggle again. He has to get off. He _has_ to… “ _Fuck you._ What about the game? And _Sam?_ It’s not over.”

“ _It was fun while it lasted, but I think it’s getting old now. Guess that’s just too bad for Sam. One last thing to push your heart to its limit…”_

“If by that you mean _fucking stop it completely.”_

She laughs, cold and sinister. “ _Why do you think it’s called_ The Flatliner _? Enjoy the ride, Dean.”_

There’s a crackle as her voice cuts off, and then it's replaced by a soundtrack of steady beeping like a heart monitor. Dean’s heart trips over itself in a rhythm that’s most definitely _not_ steady.

_Fuck._

He braces his feet against the bottom of the car again and then hooks his hands behind the restraint as best he can, pulling his elbows into his waist. He lets out an incoherent cry as he pushes, all too aware of the beeping counting down. “Come _on,_ ” he screams, “If it was all a spontaneous malfunction before then just _spontaneously fucking malfunction!_ ” He kicks hard, ignoring the searing pain in his chest as he twists his hips, just _please_ some room to get out.

Then, blessedly, miraculously, there’s a click and the restraint springs open. Dean almost falls straight into the sheer drop, but his arm hooks desperately around the restraining bar and he feels his shoulder wrench as it takes his weight. No time to focus on the pain. He has to get out. Fast.

He scrambles sideways, like he’s climbing a child’s jungle gym across the row of seats at the front of the car. “Sorry, pal,” he murmurs as he clambers over the corpse, turning his head sideways and gagging from the stench.

There’s just another three seats to go, the red service platform at the side of the car almost in reach. He can hear the beeping getting faster, and he knows exactly what it’s building to. He cries out again as he slips, grip weakening, and he almost falls. _Come on. You can make it._

He stares over at the platform, imagining Sam standing there. His brother needs him.

He plants his feet on the bar at the front of the car and hauls himself closer. The beeping has grown manic, yet Dean’s sure his own heart is faster. One meter to go, and it has to be _now._

He jumps.

A piercing, monotone screech sounds from the speakers as the car drops.

Dean lands hard and another jolt of pain courses through his battered body. He doesn’t move again, flinching only slightly as the crash from below reaches his ears. It seems distant, unreal almost, and Dean feels a strange sense that maybe he had actually gone down and died with it. The ringing in his ears almost convinces him that his heart actually stopped.

 _It wasn’t Sam,_ he realises with a sickening lurch of his stomach. _The body was never Sam._

He’d been played. She’s had him like a puppet on her strings since the moment he arrived, and now Sam’s still out there somewhere bleeding out while Dean’s no closer to finding him. All he can do is lie here shaking, barely able to move. He failed Sam. He failed his brother. And now they’re both probably almost dead and _everything fucking hurts…_

He can’t help it as the tears begin to flow, finally breaching the dam he’d been fighting so hard to keep together. They spill onto the sleeve of Sam’s coat, and Dean feels a wash of shame. _Dammit, Sammy, I’m sorry…_

The metal of the platform is cold and hard beneath his cheek. Each heartbeat is growing weak, as if the organ knows there’s no further point in taunting him. His chest shakes with each ragged breath, and Dean wishes he could pull himself together but he just _can’t._

 _Don’t you dare,_ his mind screams at him, _don’t you dare give up,_ but he doesn’t think his body’s listening.

It’s five minutes before something finally snaps him out of it.

There’s something in his pocket that’s vibrating. For a fleeting moment he thinks it’s his phone, but it can’t be when that’s lost underwater in a darkened tunnel somewhere. Then he remembers he’s wearing Sam’s jacket.

Dean’s hands fumble to find it, lying it on the platform beside his hand as he’s still too exhausted to move, and swipes to answer the call. There’s a lot of static distorting it, but through the noise he can hear a voice. A warm, welcome, familiar voice. “ _…Sam?...S….what…”_

“Cas!” Dean all but shouts in reply, a renewed burst of hope surging through his chest. He guesses that as high up as he is, more signal is getting through. “Cas, it’s Dean!”

He can’t tell if Cas hears any of it, the response nothing but broken and garbled words before the call fails, but it doesn’t dampen the hope that has sprung to life inside him again. _Cas knows there’s something wrong,_ he tells himself. _That’s why he’s calling. He’ll come find us._

He doesn’t know how true that is, but it’s something to cling to. He finds himself wondering why she didn’t intercept the call. Maybe that’s something he can do without knowing.

The angel’s voice proves to be exactly what he needed to hear, and Dean wipes his eyes and gets shakily to his feet again. Not that he’d had any chance to consider it before, but he supposes the view from up here would be incredible on a less cloudy day. Even now, there’s something chillingly beautiful about the fog that has settled in the valley, the occasional shape of a tower or coaster rising up out of it. Somewhere out there is where Sam is.

It's going to be a long climb down. The ascent up the coaster is so steep it’s a ladder rather than steps leading to the ground again, and Dean’s limbs are still shaking slightly as he begins to descend it. He tries to avoid looking down, the vertigo making his head spin in a way he really can’t afford.

As he gets off at the bottom, it takes him past a red box where he can hear the rumbling of a generator still chugging away inside. “She needs the power on,” Sam’s voice says, and it takes Dean a moment to register.

“Huh?”

“She’s possessing the park, but everything still needs the power to work.”

It occurs to Dean that Sam’s right. Or rather, he is. If he can just figure out how to use that…

“So, when are you going to come find me?” Sam asks, quickly interrupting that thought.

Dean feels a wash of guilt. He hates that she played him so easily and now he’s back to square one. Maybe even negative square one. “I don’t know where you are,” he’s forced to admit, and grits his teeth.

“Yes you do.”

Dean looks up, surprised to find he can picture Sam saying it plain as day.

“It was right there on the computer. You know what she is. The Egyptians never put the heart in Canopic jars; it stayed in the body.” He says it in his most nerdy, Stanford-student voice Dean can imagine. “You know that. If this is about your heart, you can stake your life she’s the Aztec priestess. She lured you out here for a reason. Whatever’s binding her to the park, it’s in the Haunted Halls. That’s what she most needs to protect. It’s where she is. And that’s where I am.”

“I can’t know that…” He bites his lip as his says it, but Sam seems certain.

“Yes you can. Trust yourself, Dean.”

He feels Sam touch his arm. Hazel eyes meet his, and something warm begins to spread through his chest as this time, he almost dares believe he’s right. She hasn’t tricked him. This time, it’s all him.

“I’m coming, Sam,” he promises, and his brother gives a nod.

Dean closes his eyes and draws a deep, steady breath. When he opens them again, the apparition is gone.

There’s renewed purpose to his gait as he finds his way back to the path, seeking out the trail that’s going to take him back to the west. “I’m still alive!” he shouts to the emptiness. “You hear that? My heart’s still beating. Game's still on, bitch.” He knows she can hear it, yet no answer makes its way to him. Maybe that’s a bad sign. He’s past caring. “I’m coming for my brother. Then I’m coming for you.”

The silence almost feels like a victory as he presses on. Each heartbeat no longer feels like the weapon killing his brother, but a display of defiance. One thing Dean promises himself, once he has Sam back, is that he’ll see her dead. Whatever it takes.


	17. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's seen you now.

It takes Dean a while to get back to the lower park. The lake at the foot of the hill gives way to man-made water installations as he finds himself being welcomed to “Splash Valley”, an arcing, painted waterfall forming the entrance to the park region.  There’s a dried-up log flume to his right just beyond the entrance, making use of the still-sloping terrain with a long chute that descends to the foot of the valley. Only a trickle of rainwater remains in the trough, flowing into a large pool at the bottom that it shares with a few decrepit pedalos anchored to a pier a short way away. That strikes Dean as badly designed.

He walks further down the hillside, passing the entrance to “White Water Rapids” before crossing a wooden bridge which takes him over one of the ride’s waterways. The water at the bottom looks very green and very still, he notes, before passing into a small square bordered by the remains of withered palm trees. A sign directing him to “Pirate Cove” accompanies a small display on an elevated platform in the center, and Dean’s aware of his pulse spiking as he sees the humanoid figures on it.

A crackling sound breaks the air, coming from the direction of the display, and then music begins to play from some concealed speakers. The song choice is cheesy and mind-numbingly predictable.

_Yo ho, yo ho, that’s a pirate’s life for me…_

Nervous though he is, Dean doesn’t even try not to roll his eyes.

He’s cautious as he approaches, yet the cheap-looking pirate mannequins surrounding a treasure chest remain motionless, giving no indication they’re aware he’s there. He knows it could be a decoy, just like the very first clown had been, but drawing closer shows him the lack of any joints in the arms or hands. They’re just static models: no moving parts.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, lingering briefly to study the models as he ticks off clichés in his head. There’s the peg leg, hook in place of a hand, bottle of rum, bushy beards disguising badly painted faces... A parrot sits on the shoulder of the mannequin nearest to him, its open beak giving a clear view of the speaker inside. The music continues to play.

_Drink up, me hearties. Yo ho!_

No matter how annoying the song is, there’s something decidedly creepy about the whole thing. Dean is about to turn away again when the music fizzles out, only to be replaced by a cold, too-familiar voice. “ _Well, look who’s still alive.”_

Hearing that mocking drawl makes Dean’s fists clench. He’d been waiting for her to make a comeback. “Yeah, still here. Sorry to disappoint,” he growls, then realises he’s snarling at a parrot.

“ _I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed…”_

“What about my brother? He still alive too?”

“ _Yes, Dean.”_ She gives a huff. _“I’m in no rush to bleed him out. He’s still hanging on. For now.”_

That confirms Dean’s suspicions. He’d had a feeling that if Sam were dead, she’d have been taunting him with it by now, but it still comes as a relief to hear her say it. “Prove it.”

Another sigh, then he hears the sound of a heartbeat being played across the speakers again. This time it’s faster than his: the weak, fluttering pulse of someone who’s lost a lot of blood, but not so much that their heart is on the brink of stopping altogether. That should be encouraging, but rather than unravelling the knot in Dean’s stomach, to his surprise it only furls tighter.

She chuckles. “ _Thought that might make your heart skip a bit. Sammy’s might be even stronger than yours, Dean. He’s doing very well, all things considered.”_

“So, looks like we’re still playing the game, then?”

“ _A little presumptuous, aren’t we? I think that’s for me to decide.”_

“Oh, yeah?” Knowing she kept Sam alive, he’s suddenly feeling a lot more confident. “Now, I’m just spitballing here, but something tells me that safety restraint didn’t open because _I_ wanted it to. I’d say you’re enjoying this.”

“ _I’d say you’re not.”_

He gives a dry laugh. “Yet here I am, still playing along.”

There’s a pause as she considers. “ _Alright. You’ve been a good sport, Dean. I guess I’m intrigued to see what you’ll do next. I’ll let you keep playing, but I’m not going easy on you anymore. Every beat your heart makes above 90 per minute is a drop of blood Sam loses, and he won’t get it back_.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on taking long enough that it’s going to be a problem,” he retorts, casting a derisive glance at his surroundings. If it’s aiming for some faux-Caribbean vibe, it distinctly fails. “You know, you’re lucky this place shut down when it did. I can smell the Disney lawsuit in the making.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh.  “ _I like to think my pirates are a little more authentic than the Disney ones_.”

“I think you’re confusing authentic with tacky.”

“ _Well, I’d say mine certainly have more of a cutthroat streak._ ” He hears the clicking of the speaker going dead. Kind of an ominous note to leave it on, but he’d hardly expected anything else.

Dean ignores the sign as he decides to move on. One thing he’s certain of is that heading to _Pirate Cove_ spells danger, and if he’s recalling the map from the camera room correctly, he thinks he can bypass it to head via the food court through to _The Twilight Zone._ The _Haunted Halls_ should be somewhere in that park region. From here, he estimates a twenty minute walk provided he doesn’t run into trouble.

Even without taking the path towards _Pirate Cove,_ it’s not long before he’s passing another pirate-themed attraction. A fifty foot frame suspends a swinging pirate ship, the thick bushes in the ditch beneath almost making it look like it’s floating on a sea of vegetation. Just beyond, there’s another bridge spanning an artificial waterway and Dean heads onto it, glancing over at the miniature rollercoaster on the opposite shore. Some of the track supports extend into the water, and Dean’s able to make out the name “Stormy Seas” above the entrance if he squints.

The bridge is inkeeping with the general theme: thick ropes suspend it from anchored posts on each shore, wooden slats underfoot spaced just too wide for comfort. Dean tries not to look down as he crosses. Further along the waterway, the sides steepen into a gorge and Dean can see an identical bridge running not quite parallel to the first. There’s a sign identifying _Pirate Cove_ nailed to the side of a mock-up 17th century fort beside it, sharing the shoreline that he’s just left. He’s not sorry to be avoiding it.

Halfway across, Dean’s stomach growls and he goes for another one of the candy bars, a twinge of guilt nagging at him with each mouthful. The food was intended for Sam. It’s been over a day since he last ate a proper meal, but his brother hasn’t eaten at all, and that’s only made more dangerous by the blood loss. Sam needs the food more, but it’s no good unless Dean manages to get to him in the first place.

He finishes the bar and scrunches the wrapper in his fist, pausing briefly on the bridge as he decides what to do with it. It’s petty, but it’s occurred to him that it would be some small, childish _fuck you_ if he were to just drop it and litter the park. He doesn’t imagine she’d like that.

What better reason to do it, then?

He extends a petulant arm over the rope railing, making a show of it as he allows the candy wrapper to fall to the water below. It lands without any ripples, drifting gently back and forth across the static surface. He can practically feel Sam’s disapproving glare, but just this once, circumstances considered, Dean thinks his brother will forgive him for littering.

Nothing happens. There can’t be a speaker that far away if she wants to berate him, but there’s only silence as it seems she doesn’t particularly care. Still, Dean feels a small spark of satisfaction as he continues on.

He passes the coaster, following the signs pointing towards the food court. He’s just thinking this has all been disconcertingly safe and easy as he rounds the corner of a souvenir hut…and then freezes.

The exit is up ahead, another waterfall arch marking the transition from one park region to the next. In front of it, its back turned to Dean, stands the familiar shape of a bladed arm and body of exposed metal.

Yeah. This had been too easy.

No Face paces steadily forward, its head turning in Dean’s direction, and he quickly darts behind the hut again and presses his back to the wall. _Shit._

His heart rate’s picked up pace again, and he curses himself for his earlier cockiness. Now he’s sure she’ll be making Sam pay the price if he can’t make it to the _Haunted Halls_ as quickly as he’d hoped. He risks another glance around the corner, careful not to peek out too far as he sees No Face turn and begin to pace, as if on patrol.

Looks like he’s not getting out this way, then.

He briefly considers trying to sneak past, but even if he manages it, no way can he do it with his heart rate below 90. It’s not a risk Sam can afford. He’d try to find a way through off-path, but this region of the park is, aptly and infuriatingly, bordered by water. There’s got to be another way…

Dean thinks he needs a map again. He knows he could head further west and try to find an alternate route, but that would be taking him dangerously close to the park boundary. If she sees him heading that way it’s only going to make things worse for Sam. Either that, or…

Pirate Cove. Of course. The only way he’s getting through to the south is if he heads via that attraction. Or attractions. He’s not clear on whether it’s a ride in itself or a themed cluster, but he’s pretty certain it’s the way he has to go. Also the way that she _wants_ him to go. That can’t be a good thing.

It’s not like there’s much choice as Dean turns and begins to head back the way he came, pleading with his heart to slow down. He crosses the bridge to find himself back at the pirate ship, then spots the information board not too far from the control booth. The grimy map printed on it comes into view as he draws closer, showing the more detailed plan of _Splash Valley._ His route checks out. There are two options leading out into _The Twilight Zone_ : the one that takes him via the food court, or the exit from _Pirate Cove_ where a bridge spans the waterway enclosing the region. It’s the bridge he saw earlier, he realises. Even if the first route is off-limits, he doubts the second is an improvement.

Something rustles behind him.

Dean’s heart leaps into his mouth, and for a moment he’s caught between turning and freezing stock still. The decision is made easier as he hears the grinding of metal too close behind him, then he’s throwing himself out of the way as a blade arcs over his shoulder and embeds itself in the information board.

He hits the floor, scrambling desperately back to his feet as he glances back to see glowing white eyes. Looks like No Face found him anyway.

The automaton struggles for a brief moment to retrieve its blade arm from the wooden board, but far too quickly it’s free and turning its attention to Dean. Fuck knows how it keeps managing the stealth attacks when it’s comprised entirely of gears and metal, but that’s the least of Dean’s worries as he finds himself running again.

In any other circumstances, he knows he’d be faster. The mechanoid’s heavy and unbalanced, and dammit Dean should be able to outrun it, but it’s so much harder when he’s this low on energy and it hurts to even draw breath. By the time he reaches the square, he could swear knives are being plunged between his ribs with each inhale. There’s no stopping; nowhere to hide now that it knows what he looks like. Now that it’s hunting him down.

Only two routes are available branching off from the square, and unless he wants to head up the hill again, he knows which it has to be. Dean turns and runs for Pirate Cove.


	18. Pirate Cove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart's a treasure in the chest...

The ride is exactly the rip-off of _Pirates of the Caribbean_ Dean expected. Not that he’s ever been to Disney World, but the movies are enough to clue him in as he passes the model pirate ship by the entrance, ragged black sails hanging from the mast and the name _The Blue Pearl_ painted on the side. Way to fucking miss the point.

There’s no time to give it more thought as No Face gains enough ground to swing at him again. Dean ducks, but the blade clips him, drawing a shallow cut across his shoulder blade. _Well that’s Sam’s jacket ripped now too,_ he thinks bitterly, adrenaline reducing the pain to a dull throb. He needs it as he approaches the rope barriers organising the line to the door and throws himself underneath them, hoping that will slow the mechanoid down. It just ploughs straight through, dragging the ropes and stands with it, but it’s enough to prevent it taking another swing as Dean rushes for the entrance.

Inside, it’s dark. Dean doesn’t glance back as he heads down the ramps to the boarding platform, but he’s grateful that maybe the low light will help him hide. If he can lose No Face in here, then he can make it to Sam.

There’s just one boat waiting in the docking area, sitting in the narrow channel of water as it waits to be dragged along the track, but with the power off, it’s not going anywhere. Dean doesn’t even consider it, jumping straight into the water and wetting his jeans to the knees again. He wades forward into the ride.

Without any power, it’s almost pitch black beyond the entrance. There’s a narrow stream of light coming in from a hole in the roof, but whether that was placed there intentionally or not, he has no idea. Silhouettes and shadows rise up around him as he makes his way forward, and as he sees the shapes of the displays he scrambles for the dry ground either side of the track. Just as he clambers up beside a pirate sitting atop a rum barrel, he hears a splash behind him. Dean ducks down behind the model, peering out to see the silhouette of No Face having just passed the entrance. Two dots of light glare bright and menacing in the darkness.

It stands still for a moment, casting its gaze around, and then begins to walk forward. Each footstep makes an eerie, quiet splash.

Dean waits, heart pounding so hard he swears it will give him away. She must know he’s here. If she wants the automaton to find him, then hiding will do him no good unless he can somehow muffle the sound of his heart, yet to his immense relief No Face walks right past without appearing to have noticed he’s there. It takes several more steps, looks around again, and then disappears further up the track. Several more heartbeats pass in silence. Dean lets out a long, slow breath that he didn’t even realise he’d held. He considers heading back to the entrance, taking his original route out now that No Face is wandering around looking for him somewhere in here, but then he hears a mechanical rumbling somewhere nearby and the lights begin to flicker. Dean’s blood runs cold. The power is coming on.

He becomes aware of the metallic creaking behind him just in time to turn and see a pirate mannequin swinging a cutlass in his direction. A cry of surprise escapes his throat, and he leaps out of the way only to slide down back into the water again. He turns to look back the way he came, praying to see a clear path, but there’s another mannequin advancing on him from that direction. Its sword is raised high, an eyepatch over one of its eyes while the other is painted blank white.

_Fuck._

The first pirate lunges for him again and Dean scrambles up onto the opposite bank to get away. They seem unfazed by the water, splashing down into the canal and advancing on him, but they’re clumsy as they try to climb the sides. It gives Dean chance to run.

He knew this was coming. Should have prepared for it far sooner before he had chance to get himself trapped. If there are mechanoid clowns she’s got control of, then mechanoid pirates was practically inevitable. And of course they’re fucking _everywhere_ on this ride.

Another surprise blow comes from his right, sword lunging through the bars of a model prison, and it gets close enough to slice the tip of his ear before Dean twists away. _Christ, those blades are sharp_. He reaches the edge of the bank then splashes back down into the water, scrambling for the island in the middle as the track loops round. Another pirate rises up in front of him, a musket levelled at his chest, and Dean’s heart stutters as fire and sparks erupt from the barrel.

It takes him longer than he can afford to realise he’s unharmed _._ Of course there’s no real ammo in the gun. Not that the automaton seems to know that.

Noticing its gunfire didn’t work, the pirate draws its sword and staggers towards him. Dean dives for the pile of cannonballs off to his left, grabbing one from the top – and that feels fucking real, judging from the weight – and hurls it as hard as he’s able in the automaton’s direction. It connects with a clang, striking the pirate in the chest and knocking it back into the water. Dean can’t enjoy the victory for long before another pirate clambers onto the island and he’s fleeing again.

A high rope bridge connects the island to another bank and Dean takes it, a near-miss from one of the mannequins bringing its sword to sever one of the ropes just as it misses his head. Dean feels the bridge shake, but it takes his weight just long enough for him to leap to the other side. The pirate jumps down after him, he turns to run…

…and realises he’s surrounded.

There’s pirates up ahead, behind him, in the water approaching this one point of land. His heart’s in his mouth, racing hard enough that he fears it might have just killed Sam already, and now he’s fucking screwed. Is this how it’s going to end, after everything? Hacked to death by cheap, knock-off pirates.

Then he sees it.

It’s well hidden, intentionally disguised behind a piece of rope rigging, but there it is on the wall: a green box with the same yellow and black lightning bolt icon from earlier. If the shock from the cable car box had almost killed _him_ …

Dean backs himself up against it, swallowing hard as the pirate chasing him draws closer. It staggers, movements clunky, and then draws its cutlass up ready to swing.

The blade arcs. Dean holds his ground. Then he dives.

A metal blade plunges deep into the circuit box. Sparks fly, and Dean shields his head as they rain down disconcertingly close. The pirate goes limp, feet sliding off the side of the bank into the water while its sword remains embedded in the wall. Then _everything_ short circuits.

Dean watches the sparks of blue erupt in the joints and eye sockets of the pirates surrounding him, half of them toppling over straight into the water with a splash. The few remaining on land shake and judder along with the flickering lights, then the power completely cuts. Everything falls dark.

For several moments the only sound is the blood pounding in Dean’s ears. His breathing is heavy, but he fights to control it as he strains to hear if there’s any other sound out there. All the automatons associated with the ride appear to have gone dead, but does that mean…?

In the distance, he hears the soft splashing of footsteps. No Face must still be out there.

Now Dean doesn’t know what to do. Even with his galloping heart steadying to more of a canter, he’s hesitant to head back into the water. It’s not like there’s any route back out that doesn’t require getting wet somehow, but if the power’s somehow still live… that’s not a mistake he’s going to make twice.

He crosses to the body of the automaton with its sword stuck in the circuits, reaching out hesitantly to touch the blade. He lets his fingers hover just millimetres from the metal, feeling nothing, and then dares himself to make contact.

The sudden shock arcing through him never comes.

Dean lets out a breath, at last feeling relief that maybe he’s going to make it out of here.  He’s about to head back the way he came when a thought crosses his mind.

_The splash of a metal body hitting the water… A crumpled candy wrapper falling from a bridge…_

He can hide from No Face all he likes. But if he does, chances are he and Sam are never making it out of the park.

Dean reaches for the handle of the cutlass, examining it more closely in the dim light from overhead. Unlike the clowns, the pirates haven’t had extra weapons grafted onto their skeleton, but their existing swords have been sharpened to a wicked edge. In the ten years the park’s been abandoned, it’s clear she’s been making her own modifications. He pries the weapon from the automaton’s metal grasp and the body slumps further into the water, tricorn hat knocked askew as Dean kneels down beside it. He sets the sword aside for a moment as he reaches for the penknife in its usual place in the back pocket of his jeans. It’s been useless so far as a weapon, but he hopes it will do some good now as he pushes the tip into the soft plastic of the pirate’s face.

It works. The smaller blade allows for more precision, and he carefully peels the face away from the gears and circuits behind. The beard is moulded plastic rather than anything as pricey as artificial hair, and that comes away with it, the hat following as it’s attached at the forehead. That suits Dean just fine.

Now seems like a good time to take the last of the pills. He takes out the bottle and swallows the final one down, praying that they're just expired enough that's it's neither an overdose nor too impotent to work. His heart's going to need it.

He finishes by cutting out the pirate's staring white eyes, feeling a morbid satisfaction as he punches his knife through them, and then pulls the makeshift mask onto his own head. It smells of plastic and damp, but he can just about see as he takes the pistol from the pirate’s belt and straightens up. He’s going to make it out of here.

Dean steps back down into the water and begins to walk towards the exit.

There’s daylight up ahead by the time he sees No Face again. The mechanoid is wading through the water off to Dean’s left, dragging its bladed hand along the bank beside it. Further up on the right, Dean can see where the underwater track passes through an archway and daylight streams in from the outside. It’s time to get off.

He’s careful as he creeps further forward, climbing up onto the bank as quietly as possible as he positions himself between No Face and the exit. The creature hasn’t noticed him, its face turned towards the display and peering into all the hiding places along the bank. There are no pirates left. No skin for it to take.

Dean stands up, points the pistol towards the ceiling, and fires.

Pyrotechnics spark in a flashy but harmless burst of fire, the gun going off with a dull crack. It does no damage, but the noise gets the automaton’s attention, its face turning instantly towards the sound. Its eyes seem to glow brighter as it locks onto Dean.

Dean stands his ground, defiant. “Come and get me, T-1000,” he snarls, and hears the creaking of metal knees and footsteps begin to splash through the water towards him.

Then he turns and runs.

He’d been expecting it to be close. He’s proved slow enough and the creature fast enough to make this a tight run, but it’s exactly what he needs as he reaches the exit, racing through the channel of water and jumping up onto the wooden dock. He hears the clunk of metal hacking into the wood just as he clears it, realising there’s still some way to go up a dirt path to the bridge. Dean doesn’t look back.

The exit to _The Twilight Zone_ is just yards away across the gorge, and he tries not to stumble as his feet hit the wooden slats. His pounding footsteps shake the bridge, then he feels it shudder all the more violently as the weight of a metal skeleton descends on one end. Only then does he glance back over his shoulder. “You want this?” he shouts, and reaches up to peel the mask away from his face.

The air tastes fresh again as he hurls the lump of plastic in No Face’s direction. The automaton pauses, watching him, and with surprising dexterity reaches out to catch the hacked-off pirate face. Even devoid of expression, Dean can practically see its confusion as it studies it. He hopes that keeps it distracted long enough as he turns and bolts the final few steps to the end.

Then he draws the cutlass and begins to hack at the ropes.

Just a few seconds in, he starts to worry he’d underestimated how thick they’d be. The cutlass has been sharpened to a lethal edge, but the weapon was still only ever designed as a prop. The bridge is proving sturdy, a few threads hanging in strong on one side before they finally snap and Dean turns his attention to the other.

The imbalance in tension rocks the bridge. Dean looks up to see No Face stumble and then right itself, shooting what could be a glare in his direction. It turns its attention back to the mask in its hand, and decides that’s not what it wants. The piece of plastic crumples in its fist like a foil candy wrapper. Dean feels footsteps tug at the rope as it begins to advance towards him.

_Fuck. Go faster…_

Dean’s hacking becomes more frantic, beginning to fear he’s not given himself enough time. His shoulders burn, the cuts on his arm and neck practically on fire as his muscles strain to swing the blade harder. No Face is only a few paces from the end, and any second Dean is going to feel that metal hand around his throat and the blade beneath his chin. Its white eyes burn, it lunges for him…

…and the rope snaps.

Dean stands back, feeling the sudden elation of victory as the bridge falls out from under the mechanoid. He watches it plummet over the edge, arms flailing, reaching desperately for something to grab onto. Only the blade has enough reach to make contact, but it hacks into the earth and then slides effortlessly out like a knife through butter. Dean dares take another step forward to peer down into the gorge.

All he sees is the burning white of two pinprick eyes staring up at him, before there’s a splash as the body hits the water below and is swallowed up by the murky green.

Then there’s silence.

Dean waits, several heartbeats drawing out as he hardly dares believe it. He wonders if at any second he’ll see the metal figure rising up from the water like something straight out of Judgment Day, but it never comes. No Face is gone.

He allows himself a giddy laugh of victory, bending over and dropping his hands to his knees before throwing back his head. “You see that?” he shouts to the emptiness. “Yeah, I got your boy.”

There’s no response. He wonders if maybe she’s too pissed to even taunt him, but she doesn’t need to as his mind jumps to the thought of Sam. What if she’s going to make him pay for that?

The thought of his brother is immediately sobering. Dean straightens up again, pressing a hand to his chest as he wills his heart to calm down and prays it’s not too late. He considers throwing out another prayer to Cas again, but he’s not going to waste his already-short breath. He has a job to do.

Once his heartbeat has returned to a steadier rhythm, Dean turns away from the bridge and makes the final steps into _The Twilight Zone._


	19. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and she wants yours.

Aptly, twilight is just beginning to set in as Dean passes the entrance to _The Twilight Zone._ The archway design is some combination of a rainbow with a UFO at one end and a bedsheet-style ghost at the other, the name of the region in a blockish sans-serif font written below. Dean only spares it a passing glance as he steps inside.

The first ride he passes is something called “Close Encounters”, a horizontal spinning wheel with rocket ship shaped pods suspended from the sides. He ignores it, looking for any sign that will point him towards _Haunted Halls,_ but soon finds himself passing the control booth for the "Flying Saucer”. There’s a speaker conspicuously mounted on top.

He half expects – hopes, maybe? – for it to crackle to life as he draws nearer, but the silence stretches out as he comes to stand right alongside. “Is Sam still alive?” he demands of it, but gets no answer. “Hey!” he gives the booth a kick. “You hear me? Is my brother still alive?”

Still nothing, and Dean slams his fist against it as he lets out a growl of frustration. He still has the cutlass, and his rage fuels a wild swing at the side of the booth that ends with a rattling blade and a jarring shock up his arm. She’s not going to tell him. He’s going to have to walk into _Haunted Halls_ and find either Sam still clinging to life or his brother’s dead body, before he knows. Or, perhaps even worse, he might not find Sam at all.

It’s tempting to just scream in anger, but Dean stops himself, knowing that doing so will just push his heart rate up higher. He hasn’t lost the game yet, and he has to keep playing to win.

It’s another five minutes before he comes up on the path leading to _Haunted Halls._ The building is a faux-gothic manor, all steep slanted roofs and white walls crossed with black wooden  beams. Dean has to admit, approaching it through the fog, there is definitely something otherworldly creepy about it that makes goosebumps rise on his skin. Or maybe that’s just because he knows what’s waiting inside.

He reaches the entrance, ascending the steps up the porch to where a pair of open double doors waits, beckoning him in. He’s steeling himself to walk inside when he spots it. It would be easy to miss, the light dull, porch crowded with dead leaves in fall, but there’s something that doesn’t belong just to the right of the door…

Dean kneels down, reaching forward until his hand closes around metal. Then he stands up holding Sam’s gun.

 _Sam must be here then,_ he thinks, at last feeling certain as he checks the magazine and the chamber. There’s still ammo left.

It’s hardly a great arsenal, but one sharpened prop sword and a handful of bullets in a Glock gives him a renewed confidence as he stares into the darkened space beyond the threshold. He’s getting his brother back.

Dean steps forward into the dark.

It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but soon he’s better able to make out the shapes in the entrance hall. The interior clashes with the outside: neo-classical columns have been added from floor to ceiling, offering no apparent support to the structure, but each one bears an information board and a number. There are twelve columns: one, he realises, for each hall. Dean can make out the images showing the “haunted” artefact of each: an executioner’s axe, a set of surgical tools, a beaked mask, Canopic jars… Number seven displays the familiar shape of the Aztec tablet. His fingers flex on the gun.

Dean approaches board seven, maneuvering around the leftover barriers that direct the line towards the attraction proper, and leans in closer to read. He can hear Sam’s voice in his head paraphrasing for him, but he’s not able to picture him anymore.

_“So get this: there was this Aztec High Priestess, Yolotli, who supposedly sacrificed more people than any other priest in the history of the Aztec empire. She recorded all her sacrifices on a special tablet, and after cutting out her victim’s heart she’d wash the tablet with their blood. At first she was really careful about choosing her victims, and she’d hold contests to find the person with the strongest, most athletic heart that would please the gods. People even volunteered for it at first, wanting to honor the gods and ensure a good harvest, until she started to go too far. She wouldn’t follow proper traditions, or she’d want to sacrifice the sick and unhealthy or just about anyone…citizens, prisoners, soldiers, women, children…it didn’t matter. She’d make them play games to test their hearts, sometimes getting them killed, and then she’d just sacrifice the survivors as she pleased. The people started to think she was insane, and that she was just satisfying her own whims and not honouring the gods, but nobody questioned it until one year the harvest failed. The other priests said the gods were displeased with the hearts Yolotli had offered, and the only way to appease them was by giving them hers. Her heart was cut out using her own sacrificial knife, and her tablet was washed in her blood. Her spirit is still said to haunt them.”_

Dean grimaces as he gets to the end, Sam’s voice fading to generic narration in his head. Even being killed doesn’t seem to have dissuaded her from playing her games. He just hopes this won’t end quite so bloody. If she wants to take Dean’s heart, then killing Sam pretty much amounts to the same thing, and he’s not going to let that happen.

If there was any doubt left in Dean’s mind, the information panel erases it. He’s getting Sam out, then that tablet and knife are getting salted and burned if it’s the last thing he does.

Dean tightens his grip on the weapons as he turns away from the column towards the door leading into the halls. He’d had a brief moment of indecision as to which weapon should be in which hand, but he figures the gun is going to be of more use so it’s clutched tightly in his right. He steps forward, looking up at the words written on the wall above the door.

_Wait for each door to open. Follow the path._

Dean doubts he’ll be obeying either. He reaches up to push the heavy oak door open, and then steels his resolve as he walks inside.

There’s no sound but a soft _thunk_ as the door swings shut behind him, but immediately, the already dim light drops to near-nothing. Cobwebs swipe at his face and shoulders as he moves cautiously forward, though whether real or artificial, he has no idea. His breath seems abnormally loud in the quiet.

On the floor up ahead, Dean realises he can make out the shapes of glow-in-the-dark arrows, and he figures it’s marking out the path he’s supposed to be following. For now, he takes it. The arrows leads him round a corner and towards the flickering of dim yellow light up ahead. The soft hum of white noise reaches his ears.

It’s not long until the smell hits him: something rotten and decaying and altogether too authentic to be part of the attraction. He resists the urge to gag until an overtone of roses takes the edge off, and his mind tries to make sense of it as he finds himself walking up a mock-up of a dirt-paved Medieval street. The speakers play a soundtrack: a woman moaning, crying in pain. It’s overacted, yet completely chilling, and Dean shivers.

Shadows flicker in the mock-up candlelight, and Dean sees a figure coming into view. His grip tightens on the gun, heart thumping harder.

The figure stands completely still. It’s shrouded in black, heavy material falling to the floor, while its head is almost unrecognisable as human. Beneath a black, wide-brimmed hat it wears a mask, a long black beak protruding from beneath two round mesh-covered holes for eyes.

 _Black Death,_ Dean realises.

The Plague doctor doesn’t move as he passes, yet Dean can’t help the way his skin crawls, almost feeling that the creature is watching him. Maybe it is, yet it does nothing to obstruct him as he moves toward the door into the next hall. He can’t get through fast enough, gulping down the fresh air and closing the wooden door firmly behind him. Crazy though it is, he almost feels as though he actually was in danger of catching the Plague.

The next hall comes into focus more quickly, the flickering light brighter as Dean can make out the hieroglyphic-adorned walls of an ancient Egyptian tomb. He sees the Canopic jars on an altar in the center of the room, the only authentic looking thing about the scene as an open sarcophagus lies in front. The mummy inside is cheap and tacky, its bandages looking like every half-assed attempt at an Egyptian Halloween costume Dean has ever seen. Were he not so tense, he’d probably roll his eyes.

That doesn’t stop him leaping in surprise as, without warning, the mummy jumps up. Its hands reach out of the coffin towards him, loosely bandaged jaw falling askew as a sudden rumbling death note blasts from the speaker.

The gun goes off. It would have been a good shot, hitting the mummy squarely in its forehead, yet Dean curses himself as within an instant, he realises it was just a cheap jump scare. The bullet does nothing. There’s no threat, the animatronic firmly anchored inside the sarcophagus, but if it was intended to get his heart racing, then it succeeded. That’s a bullet he’s not getting back.

Dean curses under his breath, scowling as the mummy falls harmlessly back into the coffin. He turns away and heads for the next door. He’s half-hoping none of the halls will actually prove to be dangerous before he reaches the one with Sam, but that thought gets cuts short just as he heads through into the dimly lit room and allows the door to swing shut.

There’s a rush of air, a flash of movement in the dark, and then Dean’s ducking a second before an axe has embedded itself in the wood where his head was moments before. He doesn’t need to take in the setting to know which hall he’s in. _Medieval executioner._

Despite the sudden surge of adrenaline, he keeps his finger on the trigger steady, not wasting another shot before he gets a clear aim. There’s little time for that before he once again finds himself diving out of the way, the axe arcing towards his neck as the hooded animatronic takes another swing.

Dean hits the floor, pain jolting through every bruised and tender spot in his body. He scrambles back to his feet, breath coming heavy and heart racing. One thing he’s learned: right now he’s slow, and the automatons are fast.

He leaps backwards, another attack coming all too soon, and in a panic he fires. The shot hits home, but to no avail, glancing off of a metal shoulder and the axe continuing in its swing. Dean tries to scramble away, his back hits the wall, and with one last option left he raises the cutlass to try and deflect the blow.

He’s lucky that it even half works.

The axe strikes the metal with a loud ring, deflecting sideways as the prop sword buckles then shatters. A shockwave jolts up Dean’s arm, his fingers instantly going numb as the now-useless cutlass is wrenched from his grasp. He stumbles sideways, grasping at the wall as he tries to right his balance. He isn’t going to make it to the next door.

The axeman’s arm pulls back, readying for another swing straight towards Dean’s neck, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He stumbles sideways, desperate, heart racing… and then by some stroke of luck, he feels it. Beneath his semi-numb hand there’s a handle. A door hidden in the wall.

Frantic, Dean pushes against it, feeling the click before it swings open and he falls through into the empty space beyond. The axe whistles through thin air.

The wild swing throws the automaton off balance, it rights itself, turns to hack again…

…and Dean slams the door right in its face. There’s a clunk as the axe hits the thin metal, managing to punch through, and for just a heartbeat Dean waits for another blow to come. If it wanted, it could surely have the door hacked to pieces in seconds and Dean knows he should be running, but…nothing happens. Several heartbeats draw out, silence broken only by the heaving of Dean’s breath. As long as he’s out of the hall, the Executioner doesn’t seem interested in pursuing.

Relief washes over him and Dean lets out a giddy laugh. He doesn’t know why she’s let him off the hook, but he guesses that if she wanted to let everything in the _Haunted Halls_ loose on him at once, he’d be dead by now. If this is one of the quirks of the game rules, then it’s one he won’t complain about.

He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and flexes his hand to alleviate the pins and needles still shooting up his arm. He’s in a service corridor, he guesses from glancing round, brightly lit by fluorescent strips in the ceiling and curving slightly in either direction. Painted on the door he’s just slammed, Dean can make out the number “3”. The halls must all be numbered for service access, and if he can follow it along then he can reach hall seven without ever having to pass through the others. With only a couple of bullets left, that seems like the only workable plan.

Dean begins to walk. He passes door number four, noting the general griminess of the corridor he’s in. Unidentifiable stains mar the once-white walls, and random junk is discarded along the floor: plastic sheets, polystyrene chips, cardboard boxes… A few old cans of paint are lying around, beside them the half-finished amateurish accessories to decorate the halls. Dean sees a few dismembered plastic limbs, the detached hands and forearms of automatons lying uncovered in the hallway, and as he passes a crate of power tools he can guess where the custom hands of the clowns came from.

He keeps going, passing door number six, and then up ahead sees the corridor stop. A couple of steps lead up to a white doorway with the words “Control Room” painted on, and Dean figures he’d precisely half way through the attraction. His only choice is to keep going.

He’s cautious as he approaches the steps, gun at the ready as he reaches for the door handle and pushes. It swings open with a creak.

The room beyond is dark. The lights are off, but an array of screens curves around one wall: some of them showing only static, while the others display night-vision feeds from each of the halls. Just by his feet as he enters, there’s an entire torso of an automaton protruding above plastic tarps covering the floor, its face blank and unpainted framed by a plain black wig. He might have paid it more attention if his gaze wasn’t immediately drawn to the figure in the center of the room.

There, lying on an old leather dentist’s chair, is Sam. Restraints are fastened tight around each of his limbs, his skin almost translucently pale. Tubes are stuck into each of his arms, one of them connected to a bag of blood hanging from a stand, while the other leads into a rusted metal bucket on the floor. Dean can hear the steady drip of blood.

The world seems to stop turning. Dean rushes to his brother, his heart in his mouth as he prays he’s made it in time. The gun gets abandoned somewhere on the chair as he cradles Sam’s unconscious face, praying for him to respond, and then crushes his fingertips to his throat. He waits, pressing harder in desperation, but he can’t feel a pulse. _No no no no_ runs through Dean’s head until finally he calms himself enough that his own pounding heart isn’t overwhelming everything, and then he finds it. It’s weak, but present, thrumming quickly beneath his fingers. Dean could cry with relief.

“Alright, Sammy, I got you,” he murmurs, gently touching his brother’s grazed and scratched cheek before turning his attention to the needles in his arms. He sees Sam’s eyelids flutter.

“ _…D’n_?”

“Hey, take it easy. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but I’m gonna get you out of here,” Dean promises, pressing a comforting pat on Sam’s shoulder before pulling out the needle draining blood. Sam whimpers quietly, making Dean himself wince in sympathy as he moves to tug out the other one. His brother has no more love for needles than he does. The instant the metal is free of Sam’s veins, he suddenly wonders if he should have left it in longer, but there isn’t time to let Sam gain back any more blood. They have to get out of here.

Dean moves next onto the restraints, unfastening the bonds around Sam’s ankles and grimacing as he sees the marks left behind. The automaton’s claws dragging him earlier have dug in deep, leaving bloody welts around his ankle. He’s not walking out of here, but Dean is just going to have to carry him.

The wrist restraints come undone, skin beneath raw and chafed, and then Dean is trying to coax his brother into holding on as he pulls Sam’s arm around his shoulder. “Brought you back your jacket, Sammy,” he says, trying to lift him, and then gasps as pain shoots through his own chest.

Sam’s eyelids try to drag themselves open, his pupils struggling to focus. “Dean?” His hand clutches weakly at the jacket.

“Yeah, I gotcha, Sammy. Damn, when did you get so heavy? You need to stop growing…” He’s trying to make light of it, but he’s too weak to take all of Sam’s weight. They _have_ to go _now…_

“Dean, she’s…”

Dean hears the panic in Sam’s voice just as his strength fails and Sam falls back onto the chair. Had he been thinking faster, not as weak, less distracted, he could probably have made it to the gun. Instead, he just hears the crunching in his own skull as something collides hard with the side of his head.

Winded, Dean falls to the floor, gasping as he blinks the dots from his vision. Above him, he sees a figure. The mannequin from the doorway, more than just a torso, reaches a metal hand down towards him. Its grip tightens round his throat.

Dean chokes, feet scrabbling beneath him as it lifts him from the floor. He sees its other hand draw back, the glint of metal familiar and menacing.

_Not now. Not after all this._

His eyes bulge. The creature’s blank stare seems strangely gleeful, boring into him as she knows she’s won.

_Like fuck are you knocking me out again._

It’s his last thought as a needle plunges into his neck and his body goes limp.


	20. Two Boys Stand Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every game has a loser.

Dean never quite loses consciousness. Instead he drifts, caught somewhere between reality and an equally hellish nightmare as he’s helpless to stop what’s happening. He hears Sam’s voice: moaning, sometimes, maybe screaming, and he doesn’t know which of it is real and which is imagined.

His body is being dragged, maneuvered, colors swimming unfocused above him as he feels his arms being pinned above his head. Something tugs at his clothing, his shirt rips, and he feels a cold touch drag along his chest. His back hurts, an uncomfortable pressure settling at the base of his spine.

Then everything goes dark. He’s left to ride out the pounding in his head until the drug wears off. His heart thumps hard, making him queasy as Sam’s face flickers in and out of focus in his mind.

When lucidity finally sets in, it brings with it a whole new level of fear.

He’s in hall seven. He can tell just from his position staring at the ceiling, the lights flickering on to allow him to make out the shoddy backdrop of an Aztec pyramid painted on the wall. A mannequin looms menacing above him, and Dean’s mouth goes try as he sees the blood-like face paint, eyes scratched away to leave just white. The sacrificial knife he’d read about is clutched in its hand, arm extended so that the tip points down over his heart.

_Shit._

He knows what’s coming. Dean struggles, immediately finding his wrists and ankles are held down by metal cuffs binding him to the altar. Fear floods his veins, heart pounding as if it could escape its fate just by leaping from his chest. Is this what it’s all been leading to from the start? What about…

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice cuts through the panic. Dean cranes his neck, squinting to see his brother lying on the floor just a few yards from the doorway. There’s a fuse box in the wall not far from his head. “Sammy!” No way did Sam have the strength to make it here by himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged him here, wanting him to see what’s about to happen. Sam tries to lift his head and his hands reach to try to crawl to his brother, but he’s too weak to even shout again.

Dean yells. Incoherent fury and terror floods his voice as he lets out a scream. “You _bitch!_ I won. I fucking _won._ You said I had to find Sam before he bled out, and I _did._ Now keep your end of the deal!”

He doesn’t really know who he’s addressing; if the mannequin above him has a mind of its own or if there’s going to be any response, but a chill runs through him as the speakers come to life. A cold, mocking laugh rumbles through the chamber.

“ _I never made any deal concerning_ your _fate, Dean.”_

Dean feels the cuffs bite into his wrists as he continues to struggle. “You said you’d let Sam go!”

“ _He’s free to leave any time he likes. I never said I’d help him out the door.”_

 _Fuck._ Dean’s blood runs cold as he realises she’s right. Sam’s not walking out of here without Dean, but Dean… “And what about me?” He almost daren’t ask.

Another cold laugh disturbs the air. “ _You played the game well. It was impressive, really: your heart put on such a great show for me. I think I’d like to keep it as a souvenir.”_

The bindings are steadfast. There’s nothing he can do but scream. “Fuck you. _Fuck you_ , Yolotli!”

He must have butchered the pronunciation, even if the intent was to offend, but it only seems to amuse her. “ _Don’t strain yourself, Dean. Why not just call me Wanda? It’s my park now.”_

Dean has a better idea. “Or how about I just call you what you are, you lying, cheating _bitch!”_

A sigh echoes throughout the hall, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “ _I can’t say much for your manners, but still…you have a good heart.”_ She seems to enjoy her own joke. “ _I’m going to give it pride of place. Keep it right here with me. After all, that’s where I kept Sam all this time. I think the truth is, your heart’s been here all along.”_

She’s not wrong, but he has minutes to live and no time for philosophising. He twists his neck, straining to see _anything_ that can help him. The haunted knife hovers above his chest, but even if he destroyed that there’s still the tablet…

“ _You should be honoured, Dean,”_ she continues in a smug drawl. “ _People used to volunteer to have me rip out their heart. I’ll even try to make it nice and quick and give you the good death you deserve_.” Her voice cuts out, replaced instead with a recorded ominous soundtrack of chanting, and Dean knows it’s counting down. He hears the hiss of hydraulics, the mannequin of Yolotli preparing to plunge the knife into his chest. He must only have seconds.

Dean’s eyes strain harder, hoping to see the tablet _somewhere_ in the hall. At last he spots it on the ground a few feet from him: a channel runs from the altar, designed to catch his blood and then direct it towards the carved disc of stone. But he can’t even try to destroy the relics unless he makes it out of here first…

Desperation sets in as he looks up and makes eye contact with Sam. His brother’s weak, but managing to crawl to his knees as he sees he has to help. Dean glances along the wall just a few feet from him, and Sam follows his gaze. “Yeah, only if you have the power!” he shouts, and hopes it makes sense.

The chanting gets louder, becoming more intense as it draws towards a climax. Dean’s heart thunders, as if trying to race through all the beats it fears it will never have, and the knife draws up higher ready to plunge. A final note rings out ominous and terrifying through the air; Dean sees the knife begin to descend…

Then everything goes black.

It feels for a moment like dying. For just the briefest second Dean wonders if the knife went straight into his heart and he’s already dead, then the red glow of emergency back-up lights flickers to life in the ceiling. He turns his head to see Sam kneeling by the fuse box, a handful of wires wrenched out and clutched in his trembling hand.

“Sammy…” It’s nothing more than a sigh, but the word couldn’t be filled with more gratitude and relief.

With the power cut, the electrically-controlled restraints spring open and Dean gets stiffly up, prying the flint knife from the dead mannequin’s grasp. He picks up the tablet from the floor before hurrying to check on his brother, dropping to his knees beside him. “Hey, Sammy, you alright?”

Sam seems woozy. “Yeah, ‘m okay…you?” His hand weakly paws at Dean’s torn shirt, the skin over his heart exposed. Dean had barely even noticed.

“Yeah, I will be,” he says, offering Sam an arm for support. “We just gotta destroy these somehow, then we can get out of here.” He has no idea what to do with the flint knife, but the tablet is just stone. If he can destroy just one of the damn things, perhaps it will weaken her enough that they can escape.

Dean doesn’t move far from Sam’s side as he hefts the tablet above his head, bringing it down with all the might of his pent-up rage and fury to smash it on the floor.

Stone strikes concrete, Dean waits to see it shatter…

Instead he feels a sudden shockwave radiating out from the point of impact. It throws him hard against the wall and his head cracks hard against it as he crumples, spots dancing over his vision as he tries to make out what happened to Sam.

Sam didn’t escape the blast. His arms cover his head as he lies prone on the floor, and Dean’s heart skips a beat. “Sam!” He ignores where the tablet is lying undamaged just a few feet away, crawling forward to check on his brother. If that’s what did it, after Sam hung on all this time, then it’s Dean’s fault…

He’s relieved to feel Sam stir under his touch as he presses a hand to his shoulder, helping him kneel up. “Dean, I’m fine…just…what’s happening?” Sam murmurs. He doesn’t seem fine, definitely still woozy and trembling under Dean’s hand, but Dean’s just as confused as he is.

“I don’t know.” It looks like just straight up smashing the tablet won’t work. Not if she’s protecting it…

They don’t have the luxury of time to come up with another plan. Around them, the yellow glow of the lights begin to flicker back to life, hydraulic systems once again starting to chug and hiss. Looks like she somehow got the power back.

“Shit.” No sooner has Dean said it than there comes the _thunk_ of an axe striking the door, and Dean’s head whips round in panic. Simultaneously, the door at the far end of the room opens, and he turns his head back again to see a Jack the Ripper mannequin stalk in brandishing a scalpel. Not far behind it are two more clowns. Sam’s hands clutch tighter at his jacket. “Okay, Sammy, we gotta go…”

Dean snatches up both the haunted artefacts, no clue what to do next other than _get out_ as he tries to hook an arm beneath Sam’s shoulder and hoist him up. He’s heavy, but Sam manages to take some of his own weight as the pair of them stumble towards the back wall. Dean finds the service door and they stagger through just as the axeman breaches the entrance, but the corridor beyond offers no safety.

From one end, various automatons are advancing on them, and Dean can see the shapes of jackal-headed Egyptian mannequins and the eerie figure of the Plague doctor. From the other direction, more clowns swarm towards them, headed up by a mannequin of a crazed doctor in a bloody apron and what looks like an animatronic knock-off of Genghis Khan. There’s no way to fight through.

Maybe it’s just blind luck, if anything about the situation can be called lucky, but there’s one route left to take.

A few yards away to the right, there’s a platform about half way up the wall. Just beyond is a doorway labelled “Plant Room”, the only way to reach it being a ladder running up to the platform. Dean finds himself praying that none of the automata have the ability to navigate a ladder, but then finds himself fearing that in his current state, neither does Sam.

There’s nothing else for it. Dean practically drags his brother forward before any of the mannequins have had chance to reach them. He tries coaxing Sam to climb the ladder first, almost shoving him up, but as soon as Sam’s grip goes weak he slides right back down again. It only wastes more time, and by the time Dean thinks Sam can make it the creatures are practically on top of them. He sees an axe swinging for him at the same time as he realises he still has the tablet clutched in his hand.

Dean lets it drop. Rather, he throws it, flinging the tablet at the floor hard enough that once again he feels the shockwave blast out from the point of impact. He braces for it, trying to keep Sam supported while it knocks the automatons back. Some of them topple into each other, and then there’s a clattering that ripples back along the corridor as some of them fall like bizarre, macabre dominos. Others keep their feet and begin to advance again.

That’s as much time as they can buy. One option exhausted, Dean grabs the tablet and hurls it along with the knife to the platform overhead. “Let me go. I’ll pull you up,” he tells Sam urgently, scrambling to haul himself up the ladder then turning back to grab his brother’s hand. Sam manages to make the first few steps but Dean can tell how weak he is, balance unsteady as he sways. His grip goes slack, and for a moment Dean dreads he’ll fall just as Jack the Ripper reaches the foot of the ladder and hacks a knife towards him.

It slices Sam’s calf just as Dean manages to haul him up. Dean’s own chest is fucking agony from the pressure, but a heartbeat later and Sam collapses down on the platform beside him, chest heaving. A trickle of blood seeps down his leg, and Dean’s stomach flips over. He’s already lost too much. “Alright, c’mon, we gotta go…” He tries to reach under Sam’s shoulder again to haul him towards the door.

He can’t even take a step before a sudden, agonizing cold plunges deep inside chest. Sam slips away from him and he falls, back hitting the platform as the breath is forced from his body. His vision almost blacks out from pain.

Above him, white eyes burn into his, sharpened teeth snarling as thin lips curl in a gleeful smile. The apparition flickers in time with his pulse, her true form at last revealed as her hand claws deep inside his chest to claim his heart.

If Dean could breathe, he’d scream.

White hot pain sears behind his ribs, the pressure unrelenting as he could swear he hears them crack. Blood tangs sharp on his tongue. It’s going to be over soon, his heart ripped bloody from his chest and Sam left to die beside his corpse. That twisted smile of victory will be the last thing he ever sees…

Suddenly, a look of shock contorts her face. The pressure relents, and a voiceless scream forms on her lips. Over her shoulder, Dean sees Sam, clutching the handle of the flint knife buried in the ghost’s back. For a moment the world seems to freeze, all three of them caught in shock.

And then the knife shatters.

The force of it is immense, the shockwave rippling through Dean’s chest and rattling his ribcage with a fresh surge of pain. In an instant the spirit evaporates, and Sam gives a yell as the shards of flint slice at his hand. More of them blast outwards to slice at his face and neck and he throws his arms over his head, curling closer towards Dean just as Dean does the same towards him. They both slump down, breathing heavily.

After several heartbeats, Sam dares peek out from behind his hands again. Dean clutches at his chest. They make eye contact. “Is she gone?”

Sam sounds hopeful, the same hope Dean almost doesn’t dare allow himself to feel, and as he glances down towards the ladder he realises he’s right not to. A mechanical hand reaches over the platform ledge. “Not yet.” He ignores the agony in his chest as he drags Sam back to his feet. “Come on, let’s go.” He pushes the door to the plant room open and they stumble through.

There’s still the tablet left. She’s weakened, but unless Dean finds a way to destroy that, they aren’t making it out of here. His mind races as he tries to come up with a plan, but right now, he’s just focused on keeping the both of them alive.

Beyond the door, a metal runway runs through a room filled with towering machinery, columns and pipes and towers rising up on both sides. There’s the hiss of steam, the chug of turbines, and Dean realises the main generator has to be here.

_Power._

She needs power, and this is the source.

A plan is just beginning to form in his head as he hears the clatter of metal behind them, and glances back to see a clown staggering through the door. Through the grilled floor of the runway he sees more automatons swarm underneath, and he knows they’re surrounded. He has to end her now if there’s to be any chance for them.

Dean’s eyes fix on another platform up ahead, the green light of a fire escape glowing just beyond. “Come on, Sammy. We just gotta make it that far…”

Sam sags against him, then murmurs out a word. “Generator.”

It takes a moment for Dean to realise Sam is thinking the same thing he is. “Sammy?”

“It’s that one up there.” Talking seems to be a great effort. “Go. You’re faster than me. Finish the bitch.” He practically shoves Dean away from him, weak though he is, but Dean gets the message. Either go without him, or they won’t make it at all.

Dean runs. He makes it as far as where a wide metal pipe runs up from one of the shining cylinders below, the catwalk running just alongside a hatch marked with a danger sign. He sees the label “Exhaust” as he fights to get it open, burning his hands, but it’s just one more surge of pain blurring in with all the others. Coughs rack his chest as he gets a sudden faceful of steam, and then glances anxiously back along the catwalk towards his brother.

Sam has collapsed, not steady enough to stay on his feet. The clown is almost upon him, axe swinging down towards his head, and Dean feels his heart stop as he sees his mistake. His cry of Sam’s name is lost above the roar of machinery. After everything, now he’s helpless to save his brother…

He doesn’t need to.

Sam rolls, the axe clanging harmlessly against the metal floor, and then he lashes out with a kick. It hits the already off-balance clown in the ankles, unsteadying it further, and then it staggers back, hits the runway barrier, and topples. Dean watches it fall to collide with the side of a boiler tower, and then it bounces off and clatters down on top of one of the automatons below. A grin breaks over Dean’s face. That’s his brother.

He turns back to the vent, holding his breath as he holds out the tablet into the open aperture. The lights flicker briefly, and Dean glances back along the runway again to see another figure materialising ahead of the mannequins.

Yolotli’s back.

Her ghost stalks closer, movements jerky, broken. Sam’s blow has left her weakened, and Dean sees the gaping hole in her chest, ribs splayed around a space where a heart used to be. Her mouth opens and lips draw back in a silent scream of fury, voiceless without any speaker at her command. Her hands claw and reach towards him, murder in the blank whites of her eyes.

He stares her down, triumphant. “I win, bitch.”

Dean drops the tablet.

There’s a loud clanging as it bounces down the inside of the pipe towards the main generator, and Dean leaps back as the first blast of steam erupts from the vent. The apparition shudders, flickering, and Dean darts straight past to where Sam is still lying on the floor. He throws his body over his brother’s not a moment too soon.

The generator explodes. A rumble shakes the whole building, and Dean cries out as he fears for a moment the ceiling might just come down on top of them. Sparks and flames erupt from multiple pipes running along the walls, valves beginning to burst.

Yolotli’s ghost screams. She makes no sound, but the screeching of a fire alarm cries for her as flames engulf the spirit, at the same time springing up from various apertures and vents around them. Prompted by the generator malfunction, something else explodes on the floor below and the walkway shudders again.

Dean counts ten more heartbeats before Yolotli’s ghost evaporates into smoke. Pain distorts her expression, the final one she’ll ever have before she’s swallowed up by oblivion. Around them, there’s the clattering of multiple metal automatons tumbling to the floor.

It’s over.

Dean chokes on his cries of relief as the pain he’d been fighting so hard to ignore suddenly hits him full force. He can’t succumb to it. Not yet.

Sam clutches at him, weakly trying to pull himself up, and Dean hooks an arm beneath his shoulder. They’re going to make it out of here.

“Dean?” Sam gasps as he falls against his side, the thick stench of smoke and burning gasoline making both their breathing short. “Nice work.” He might have said more, but it’s the most succinct thing he can manage with so little breath. For Dean, it’s enough.

“Thanks.” Dean’s eyes fix on the fire escape in the distance, and they stumble on. “Come on, little brother. It’s time to go.”


	21. They Both Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to sleep...

They’re lying on the floor when Cas finds them. A building burns behind them, orange flames licking at the sky while two boys lie in the dirt. It’s almost peaceful. The fire is warm, the blanket of smoke thick and heavy as it wraps the brothers in its embrace and invites them to sleep forever.

Castiel doesn’t know what happened. He draws closer, dread curling inside him as he curses _everything_ that he couldn’t get here sooner. He’d tried. From the first fragment of prayer that had made it through he’d listened, tried to make out the distant cry for help, but with each effort to sense where Dean was some dark force had pushed back against his grace. He’d tried to call, each dial of Dean’s phone taking him to a dead line, so many calls to Sam failing…until one had been answered.

Then Cas knew. The brothers were in trouble. They needed him. And still he had no idea where they were.

Hours passed before, without warning or explanation, the dark force suddenly lifted. A desperate prayer reached his ears. “ _Cas, we need help…”_

The angel answered. Immediately his wings carried him to where he felt the faint glimmer of two souls, only to find them lying at the foot of a metal staircase bleeding into the dirt.

It seems redundant for an angel to pray, but Cas does, pleading with a Heaven that despises him that he isn’t too late. He draws closer and kneels down beside the brothers. Sam is pale as a sheet, while Dean seems to be covered in twice as much blood as he should rightly have. Even now, their bodies incline towards each other, Dean’s arms around his brother as if he can surrender his unconscious body as some last vestige of protection.

Castiel reaches out his hands, one to rest on each boy’s chest as he senses the life force rapidly fading inside. He touches each throat for a pulse, two heartbeats fluttering and weak, but even now in sync. It will take more power than he currently has to heal, but neither is beyond hope.

A left hand grasps onto Sam’s shoulder and a right hand closes on Dean’s. Castiel unfurls his wings. He’s taking his boys home.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's over.

Something’s beeping. The sound is persistent, relentless, and something about it makes anxiety churn in Dean’s stomach. He feels a restlessness pervading his limbs, urging him to move; to run, but he finds he doesn’t have the strength.

It takes several more seconds for Dean to realise the beeping is quickening, keeping time with his heartbeat. He opens his eyes.

Immediately, he’s forced to squint, the sudden intensity of the light too bright for his pupils to adjust. He sees white: white walls, white ceiling, white bedsheets. Wires and leads trail off to join monitor screens on his left. It doesn’t stop his rising panic to realise he’s in hospital, one thought quickly forcing its way to the front of his mind. It passes his lips as soon as it enters his head, a single gruff syllable: “Sam?”

“Dean?”

Relief sweeps over him at the sound of the voice. He turns to face the other direction, surprised to see his brother on a second bed beside his own. There’s a bag of saline on a stand beside him, connected to an IV line flowing into Sam’s veins. Beside it is a bag of blood. “Sam, you okay?”

It surprises Dean to see Sam looking so well. There’s color in his cheeks. The scratches on his face have been cleaned up, the worst of them covered with tiny strips of gauze. He doesn’t even seem to be in pain, and just that thought is enough to make Dean’s own injuries fade to almost nothing.

“Yeah, I’m good. They gave me a blood transfusion, fluids, some antibiotics…I’m doing okay. What about you? Cas said you were in a bad way when he found us.”

“Cas?” Confusion lingers for a heartbeat before Dean notices the figure sat in the chair by the door. He looks over at the angel, hardly knowing what to say. Cas speaks first.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean should be relieved. Grateful. Yet he can’t help the anger that rises in his voice as the mounting frustration of the past two days pours out. “Where were you?”

Even Sam seems surprised by the hardness of his voice.

“Dean…” Cas rises, strides closer. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I tried…”

“Well, you should have tried harder.” Dean can’t even look at him, his vision strangely misty as he stares at the ceiling. All the hell of the past two days, and Cas could have come for them, got them both out…

“There was a force preventing me from reaching you, Dean. I didn’t even know where you were. I promise, as soon as I knew, I came.”

It makes sense. Dean knows it does, knows he’s being unfair, yet he just can’t let go. “You didn’t think to ask questions? Find out where we’d gone on the hunt?”

He’s hardly being reasonable. He’s mad at himself for doing this, but if he can’t take it out on the bitch that put him through all that, he has to take it out on something.

Sam intervenes. “Dean, hey. Cas did what he could. If he hadn’t found us when he did, we’d both be dead by now.”

Dean’s fists clench briefly, then all the fight seems to seep from him. He doesn’t want to be mad at his friend. He just doesn’t know how to accept this is over. “Yeah, I know.” He blinks as he meets the angel’s gaze, yet finds he can manage neither a “thank you” nor a “sorry”. The look in Cas’ eyes tells him he doesn’t need to.

The monitor continues to beep.

A shaky breath is drawn into Dean’s lungs as he tries to block it out, but finds he can’t. He could do without the constant reminder of his beating heart. “Hey, Cas, could you turn that off?”

The angel follows Dean’s gaze to the monitor, and his brow creases. “Dean, it’s for…”

“Yeah, I know. Can you just turn it off?” Guiltily, he realises he snapped again, and tries to soften it with, “Please?”

Cas does as he’d asked, going to turn the monitor off at the wall without further question. Dean’s grateful for the silence. “So, no healing then?” he says after a few moments.

“I did what I was able, but you needed medical attention.”

Dean grunts. “Mm. And what about Baby?” He doesn’t want to have to go back to the park to retrieve the car. Doesn’t think he can face it.

“I went and fetched the Impala as soon as the doctors assured me the two of you would be alright. You should rest now, Dean. There’s nothing you have to worry about.”

Dean wants to believe that’s true.

Some time passes, although Dean’s hardly able to tell if it’s minutes or hours. The police don’t ask questions. They try, two officers appearing at some point wanting to talk, but a forehead touch from Cas later and they’re thanking them for their help and leaving again. A nurse comes in presently to check on the brothers, berating Cas for Dean’s monitor being off, but he’s probably spared the worst of her wrath by Dean being awake. Dean all but white-knuckles it through watching Sam be examined, stethoscope pressed to his chest, and then it’s his turn. He screws his eyes shut and tries so hard not to think, not to remember, not to feel the pain stinging behind his ribs. The beeping of the now-turned-on-again monitor is a dead giveaway.

“I’m going to give you a sedative,” the nurse announces as she pulls the stethoscope away from his chest. “Your heart’s recovering well, but you seem distressed. You need to relax and get some sleep.” Dean doesn’t complain as she inserts a needle into his IV port and depresses the plunger, then she’s gone again. It feels nice as everything begins to go fuzzy and he doesn’t have to think anymore, doesn’t have to worry about the pain. He can hear the pauses widening between the monitor’s beeps.

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice is distant, but it’s his brother’s voice, and Dean focuses on it. “Mm?”

“What happened?” He seems hesitant to ask, but his concern is apparent. The question is asked almost tenderly. “Why can’t you stand to hear the monitor? Or let her examine you?”

The answer hovers in the air for a few moments before Dean tries to give it voice. His vision is misting again, although he can’t tell whether from tiredness or tears. “She was going to kill you, Sammy,” he says at length. “If my heart beat too fast, she was going to bleed you dry.” His voice doesn’t crack. It comes close, tightening in his throat, but never breaks.

He’s surprised when he hears movement beside him. Wheels roll across the vinyl floor, and Dean forces his drooping eyelids to stay open. Sam has gotten up from the bed, pulling the stand of saline alongside him as he approaches Dean. Puzzlement washes over his already-dulled mind for a moment before Sam reaches for Dean’s hand and holds it to his chest. Dean can feel the steady beating of his brother’s heart beneath his palm.

“You feel that?” Sam says softly, and Dean wonders if he’s already fallen asleep and this is just a dream. “You saved me. I’m alive. My heart’s still beating, so you don’t have to worry about yours anymore. It’s over.”

It’s comforting, to hear him say it. His chest is warm beneath Dean’s hand, his heartbeat strong and steady, and distantly Dean hears a beeping monitor beginning to keep time. Everything feels safe and warm, and when his brother says it, Dean finds that he can at last believe it. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Dean’s head sinks back into the pillow, and he sleeps.

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the wonderful Izzy - it-started-with-yellow-fever.tumblr.com


	23. Appendix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional behind-the-scenes info to supplement the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having now finished the fic, I thought I’d just write a bit extra to give more info about some of the ideas that came up in the story and what inspired them, and also touch on some of the things I wasn’t able to include. I do hope that in the details of the fic I managed to provide answers to most of the questions readers would have, but if there’s anything I missed I will try to answer it here.

**Wanda’s Wonderland  
** The name is shamelessly ripped from Canada’s Wonderland, with a modification to suit the setting. The idea of a disembodied female voice taunting Dean and controlling the park was the first concept I came up with for the story, and the name “Wanda” was chosen before ultimately deciding that the park would haunted be an Aztec ghost.

The park itself is inspired by a whole host of real life amusement parks, some of which I have visited and some that I haven’t, but ultimately the intent was to show that even before being abandoned, the park was somewhat cheap, tacky, and derivative. The “ _Where dreams come true_!” strapline was lifted straight from Disney World while remaining generic enough to get away with. “Pirate Cove” was indeed envisioned as a low budget “Pirates of the Caribbean”.

The park’s poor planning and unrealistic aims contributed to its eventual demise, and some evidence of this can be seen in the terribly budgeted, pie-in-the-sky idea of “Mechanoid Circus.” The “Haunted Halls” were also a gimmicky and overblown idea, with the authenticity of most of the “haunted” artefacts remaining unverified. Only the Aztec items were genuinely haunted, or even genuine at all. This was ultimately the reason why the park was able to acquire the items from the Wheatley Memorial Museum cheaply, but their sheer incompetence and damaged reputation left then unable to sell off assets after the park shut down

The creepy vibe I was aiming for with the park was largely inspired by the carnival from _Silent Hill 3,_ which is also the reason so much of the story is set in fog.

-

 **The Game  
** The idea for the game came largely from my personal love of heart-centric horror, because I can’t imagine anything more frightening than being forced to fear your own heartbeat. However, the particular setting and implementation was somewhat inspired by the game _Illbleed_ where the main character is searching an amusement park for her missing friends. A key mechanic of the game is to not allow your character’s heart rate to creep up too high, and injuries and pain levels have to be carefully managed.

- 

 **Wanda/Yolotli  
** I made a point of not having Dean use a name for her until the very end, although it was natural for the reader to think of her as Wanda from very early on in the story. I think both names work to identify the character, as “Wanda” is merely an abstract concept used to assign a name to the park – “ _Just call me Wanda. It’s my park now.”_  It was far too lacking in subtlety to include this explicitly in the fic, but “Yolotli” is a unisex Aztec name meaning “heart”. Fortuitously, “Wanda” also seems like a fitting callback to Randa, the character from Supernatural who tried to rip out Dean’s heart in 8x03.

\- 

**No Face  
** As with Yolotli, the general concept of a mechanical creature searching for its skin came to me before I had more of a backstory fleshed out. This was inspired as something of an inverse of _Five Nights at Freddy’s,_ where the automatons will try to stuff you into a suit if they think you aren’t wearing yours. Here, No Face will try to take your skin in order to wear it.

While in the story it was only mentioned that Yolotli’s ghost haunts the tablet, I also toyed with the idea that washing it in the blood of her victims causes their spirits to be tied to it. The ghosts of her sacrifices would haunt the park and animate each of the automata Dean encounters. In No Face’s case, I imagined the mechanoid to be haunted by the ghost of a man Yolotli had flayed alive, and now wanders the park in search of his missing skin. I had no real way to work this into the fic without breaking flow or tension, but it’s definitely a possible interpretation.

His initial appearance where Dean can’t look directly at him was drawn from _Amnesia: The Dark Descent,_ where the first encounter with a grunt requires you to hide and look away or else it drains your sanity.

The physical appearance of the character was largely based on the character design of the T-1000 skeleton from Terminator, as referenced by Dean in chapter 18, with some influence from _Silent Hill_ ’s Pyramid Head and _Amnesia’s_ brutes.

- 

 **The Clowns  
** These evolved largely from the intent to scare Sam to eventually take on a much bigger role in the story as a whole. Visually, inspiration was drawn from obvious sources such as _It,_ but also Jigsaw from the _Saw_ franchise, the clowns from _Supernatural_ itself, and the clockwork robots from _Doctor Who_ ’s “The Girl In The Fireplace”. Buzzsaw also drew inspiration from Chainsaw in the game _Cry of Fear._

The idea of having additional blades and tools grafted onto their arms was drawn from the brutes and grunts in _Amnesia: The Dark Descent._

\- 

**Head!Sam**  
Head!Sam was initially never envisioned as part of the story, but it soon became apparent that simply recounting Dean's thoughts as a means of exposition was somewhat slow and tension-sapping. Therefore, giving him someone to talk to in his head proved to be a great tool and made Sam's presence felt with the story. It was also consistent with the blow to his head Dean received at the beginning, possibly leading to a concussion which triggered hallucinations of Sam.

-

 **The Nurses (abandoned concept)  
** I’ve mentioned previously that _Silent Hill_ has been a large influence on this story. While it is first and foremost a game, there exists a 2006 movie featuring Sean Bean to market the game. It didn’t exactly get good reviews and deviated somewhat from the game’s plot, but I thought it was a perfectly decent horror movie. Certainly no worse than any Jared and Jensen have starred in! However, there also exists a sequel, which was so horrendously bad I normally want to forget it ever existed, bar one scene: Kit Harrington’s character strapped to a gurney, while Heather tries to free him and save him from the “nurses”. In a good deviation from the game, the “nurses” MO is horrifying. They are blind, their heads wrapped in bandages, but they will only attack you if you move. This simultaneously means you can stay perfectly safe by keeping still, and also that you can never escape. I really wanted Dean to encounter an enemy like that, but found it worked less well in text form and there wasn’t really a place for it. It was going to feature in the Egyptian Hall, yet it felt like a distraction from the plot and led less effectively into the axeman’s sudden attack. It could, conceivably, have worked in place of the axeman, but I think I may save the concept for a different story.

\- 

**The Flatliner  
** While an obvious choice of name and shape for a story centered round the heart, the style of the ride was largely influenced by Alton Towers’ _Oblivion,_ Canada’s Wonderland’s _Behemoth_ and _Leviathan,_ and Blackpool Pleasure Beach’s _Pepsi Max._

The sheer drop of the ride – which for Dean would have been fatal – was drawn from the design of _Oblivion._ A car comes to stop at the top of the drop, waits there just long enough to scare you, and then plummets vertically into a hole in the ground.

 _Leviathan_ and _Behemoth_ were influences largely for their scale and size, with their shapes forming some of the influence for the track design after it “flatlines”. Mostly influential for the fact that _Behemoth_ managed to scare me to the point where I wouldn’t go on _Leviathan,_ so that gave me greater sympathy for Dean. The tracks themselves wouldn’t be so scary but the cars _don’t have proper restraints._ The idea of a spontaneous malfunction throwing people from the cars came from what was largely running through my head upon realising the only restraints _Behemoth_ had was a bar across your hips. _Leviathan_ was the same, but the track was even taller featuring a near-vertical stretch. Hence I refused to ride it. I’m not that brave

 _Pepsi Max_ was an influence chiefly for its scale, blood red color, and its position dominating the Pleasure Beach skyline.

-

 **Digitalis  
** Originally, the drug in the syringe which Wanda instructs Dean to use was identified as digoxin, until I realised I had no way of explaining why she had hold of such a specific drug. However, it was conceivable that she could create a heart rate-altering chemical from the wild foxgloves growing in the park, which were mentioned briefly in chapter six.

- 

 **Haunted Halls  
** The exterior was inspired by Alton Towers' haunted house, which is now an interactive shooter ride. The interior was largely original, born from a need to explain why the park is haunted. Sam was there the whole time. The kicker? If Dean had taken the opposite direction down the path at the beginning, he'd have gotten there in five minutes. If he'd plugged in the right cameras in the security office, he'd have seen the clowns take the path looping back round. Wanda set him up to play the game exactly how she wanted.

-

 **Cable Cars  
** Lifted straight from the Sky Ride at Alton Towers running over a lake and up a hill. In chapter 13, the clown managed to land on top of Dean's car by jumping from the car passing in the other direction, but Dean wasn't looking the right way to see it.

- 

 **Nightmare  
**_“Where dreams come true”_ wasn’t a lie! Dean’s nightmare from chapter 15 comes horrifyingly true in chapter 20. The nightmare didn’t form part of the initial story plan, but I wanted something to bridge the gap while Dean was unconscious and show what was going on in his head. It was also useful to give a first glimpse of Yolotli’s true appearance, as the mannequin didn’t do her justice.

The entire scene was based almost exactly on the opening sequence of the game _Cry of Fear._ Said sequence involves following shapes blindly through the dark before culminating in an horrendous jump scare of a face screaming at you. Jump scares don’t exactly work in text form, but the intent here was to build atmosphere and give more of a glimpse of Wanda’s true form before the final reveal.

- 

 **Warlock Entertainment  
** The company owning Wanda’s Wonderland. A riff on “Merlin Entertainment” who own various UK theme parks such as Alton Towers and Thorpe Park.

-

 **Wheatley Memorial Museum  
** A shoutout to Wheatley from _Portal 2,_ as Wanda’s scathing, disembodied voiceover has some sadistic GLaDOS vibes about it.

Yolotli was also responsible for the automotive exhibition accident that caused the museum to close. Tracing back the history of the tablet, she’s been responsible for a lot of deaths as part of her ongoing game.

-

 **White Eyes  
** Yolotli’s eyes are white. The eyes of all the automata have either faded to white, were white to begin with, or have been scratched off to match. This was mostly a stylistic choice to indicate the extent of her supernatural power. As a high priestess in life, she had some supernatural influence which carried over into her death. Hence she was able to exercise such wide-reaching control of the park, but could not provide her own power source.

-

 **Dean Is Smart  
** It was very important to me to show that Dean is clever and capable enough to solve the case and overcome obstacles on his own. Though of course, never giving himself enough credit, he attributes most of his good ideas and knowledge to head!Sam.


	24. Anatomy of a Damaged Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying art by the wonderful Izumislover, beginning with an anatomy of damaged Dean.


	25. Worst Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A triptych of Dean's worst nightmares. Edits by me.

 

  



End file.
